


Drawn That Way

by ChloeWeird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Stiles Stilinski, Autism Spectrum, Clothing Disparity, Homeless Stiles, M/M, Masturbation, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Panic Attacks, Personal Trainer Derek, Sexual Tension, Social Anxiety, Untreated Anxiety Disorders, background Scott/Allison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-11 01:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7019557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird/pseuds/ChloeWeird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is settling in (badly) at his new job at a gym in New York City. The job is fine, his co-workers seem alright, and his apartment is great, if a little lonely. The only problem: The infuriating guy who keeps sneaking into the gym to use the showers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, before we get started, Fair warning: 
> 
> In this fic, Derek suffers from what I consider to be a mild form of OCD, which he hasn’t had diagnosed, either by himself or a trained professional. I don’t have OCD, nor did I set out to write a fic about it. It just sort of happened. I did a fair amount of research, and tried to portray it correctly to the best of my ability, though every person is different. Please let me know if something is glaringly, unforgivably wrong, and I’ll see what I can do about it. 
> 
> As for the undiagnosed part: I think that it would be just like the Derek we know, however AU, to just assume the things that were “wrong” with him were because he was wrong somehow, not because he's dealing with a disorder. And as much as his family loves him, I think it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that they would deny there was anything wrong with him to their last breath. They’d be right…but also not. Having an anxiety disorder doesn’t make you wrong, it just makes you atypical. Derek doesn’t know this, so he’s hard on himself. 
> 
> This has been a pretty therapeutic fic for me to write, because while I don’t have OCD, I do have some of the social anxiety Derek has. I hope it’s as cleansing to read as it was to write.
> 
> ETA Sept 14/16: A few commenters have noted that Derek displays some traits of someone who might identify as being on the autism spectrum. I've added the tag, as per their recommendation, but I didn't intentionally write character with that in mind, only with OCD in my head. However, OCD has been linked somewhat with some experiences with autism. So take the tag with a grain of salt.

To Derek, new jobs always felt like the first day of school for a month or so. In that honeymoon period, when Derek headed off to work, he felt excited, and he even looked forward to it a bit, because every day held a new challenge, or a new co-worker to meet, or a new facet of his job he hadn’t grown to detest yet.

But it always passed, eventually. This time, it passed a little quicker than he’d expected.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy working at Get Fit! (The exclamation point was mandatory on pain of termination, Erica had told him. He still wasn’t sure if she was joking.) He liked his job as a personal trainer, enjoyed helping people meet their goals and designing workouts that fit their strengths and weaknesses. (Not to mention, pushing them so hard they stopped trying to make small talk because they were sweating and breathing so hard.)

It was just that he, as the New Guy, was on the bottom of the totem pole, which meant he had the smallest client roster, which meant getting the crappy jobs no one wanted to do. He was stuck on towel duty, he had to mop the muddy entrance on rainy days, and keep an eye on the smoothie bar to make sure they weren’t running low on anything. (He was supremely grateful that he wasn’t the person who had to chop up the fruit on offer into neat and uniform pieces. No one liked blood in their smoothie, so it was for the best.)

He also had to cover the welcome desk every spare minute he had, so that the regular staff could get as much of the grunt work done as possible before closing time. Unlike the other gyms Derek had worked at, they didn’t have a gate at the front desk. The entrance was an open area, but anyone who wanted to come in had to scan their keychain, or they’d be turned away. It wasn’t an unmanageable problem, but it meant that someone had to be manning the front desk at all times, so it was a little inconvenient.

All these menial tasks were no more than what he’d signed up for, and they weren’t enough to make him even consider quitting. He liked the atmosphere here. His co-workers were pretty easy to get along with, even with his Resting Murder Face (he’d never admit to Cora that he used her nickname), the clients he had so far were nice, and the pay was great. It definitely differed from what he thought he’d be doing after his kinesthesiology college program, but even the worst day at Get Fit! was better than the best day at some franchise gym where he was treated like another cog in the multi-million dollar wheel. 

The only problem was that Derek never thought he would be so bored. He was doing his dream job. Mostly. In between sanitising the front desk within an inch of its life because there was nothing else to do. He was sure it’d get better, though. He’d gain more clients. Another newbie would get hired and he could work the floor, intimidating members into doing their push-ups with proper form. 

He was hopeful that the boredom wouldn’t last. 

***

Derek had perfected the perfect towel folding method. If he folded them in thirds, instead of halves, they fit perfectly on the shelf, with no extras jammed into the sides of the cupboard. There was only a few hours until closing, and while he _could_ leave the laundry for the day-shift person to deal with, he enjoyed the busy work. He’d never admit it to Erica, but he was pretty pleased with himself. The satisfaction he got from turning the messy pile on the edge of the welcome desk into an orderly stack was giving him a high he normally only got from making sure the 13 pens in the jar on the desk were all pointed the same direction.

He took the last load to the cupboard and put the laundry basket away, then returned to the desk. He sat on the stool for a few minutes, wondering how the hell he was going to get through--he checked his watch--2 hours and 47 minutes of pure, mind-numbing boredom. His fingers started tapping on the desk without him noticing. His leg bounced up and down on the stool’s foot rest. Sundays were always tough. They closed at seven, instead of nine, and there still weren’t that many people coming in. Most people wanted to spend their last evening of the weekend at home. He couldn’t blame them. He was on a Wednesday to Sunday work week right now, and he jealously guarded his Tuesday nights. This particular Sunday afternoon, the weather was working against him. It hadn’t stopped raining in hours, but it was still unseasonably warm for early fall. 

Derek looked at his watch again. 2 hours and 43 minutes. He needed to find something to do, or he’d end up bashing his own head into the desk to end his suffering. He leaned forward and looked out of the empty entrance. There was no one. He sighed, watching the seconds go by on his watch, then gave in. 

He reached into the drawer and took out the miniature sandwich board that had a laminated sign on it that read, “Welcome to Get Fit! Come on in!” Next, he tucked the scanner machine into the drawer. They were only supposed to use the honour system in emergencies, when they were understaffed and barely keeping up with their daily tasks. It was always a bit of a risk, because a potential new member could come in and not see anyone to talk to, and they could lose interest and leave. 

Derek knew this didn’t really qualify as an emergency, but he was at the end of his rope. If a single person came in within the next 2 hours and 39 minutes, he’d be so shocked, he’d fall off the stool. Better to get off the stool now, and do something useful, instead. He left the desk and booted up the computer on the stand-up desk just inside the break room. Its original purpose was to give the trainers a place to plan their sessions, but people mostly used it to check their Facebook when they were having lunch. 

Derek loaded the spreadsheet he’d saved to his dropbox and finally commenced doing something useful on his paid time. Every five minutes or so, he poked his head out the office door and scanned the area for members. Each time, he was relieved to see not a single soul. 

After about half an hour--2 hours and 9 minutes to go--he did his check, and was surprised to see someone heading toward the change rooms and showers. He could only see their back from where he was, but he could see that the guy was wearing jeans. It wasn’t so unusual to see someone coming in still in their street clothes, because some people came from work. But on a Sunday, 90% of the people he saw were at home lounging before they came in, so they usually left the bulky gym bag at home and arrived ready to go. (This guy had a huge, overstuffed backpack.)

Derek stood in the doorway, debating whether or not to sit at the front desk instead of hiding in the back. He was so close to finishing his client’s workout plan, he hated to stop now. He decided to keep a closer eye on the security camera feed in the main area rather than abandon his project. 

He was finished one spreadsheet and was moving on to the next when he glimpsed some movement in camera three, the one that covered the entrance to the men’s change rooms and showers. 

The way those entrances were set up was the top most complained-about feature of the gym. More than the loud Top 40 music, more than the occasional shortage of towels on Friday mornings. More even than the avocado costing $3 extra at the smoothie bar. (Even Derek thought that was a little much.) The doors were right next to each other, but to go to the changing rooms, people had to go left, and to go to the showers, they turned right. There was about five feet of space between them, which was extremely inconvenient because it meant members couldn’t disrobe in the change room then walk to the shower, leaving everything but their towel and cleaning products in their locker. They had to schlep it all with them, or risk flashing people if their towel came down.

On the screen, the guy Derek had seen walking in came out of the showers fully clothed, then walked out the entrance to the gym and down the stairs to the shopping complex the gym was on top of. Derek checked his watch again, alarmed that he’d been so involved with his project that he’d missed checking the cameras for long enough to miss this guy’s whole workout. He frowned, then checked the time on the computer. They read the same thing. The guy had only been in the building for 15 minutes. 

_Odd_ , Derek thought. Maybe the stranger changed his mind about a workout. Derek didn’t recognize him, so he might have been one of those people who thought simply paying for a gym membership was the same as using it. People like that often got spooked by the intimidating machines and left without even tying up their running shoes. (Once, Derek had waited 20 minutes for a client to start their regular appointment, only to find out she’d been in the locker room the whole time, flat on her back after having thrown it out by putting on her sweater at a weird angle.)

Derek went back to the computer and got lost in his work. By the time the clock finally clicked over to 7PM and he could start closing up, he’d forgotten all about the guy, and the work-out he hadn’t done. 

***

Wednesday couldn’t have been more different than Sunday. He had a schedule full of appointments with clients, and he was rushed off his feet in between them, getting everything that needed to be done around the gym finished. He was in the middle of sanitizing the machines when he caught a glimpse of brown hair and blue jeans. It was the same guy as before, Derek realized, slipping into the men’s showers. Derek hadn’t seen him at the entrance, but that wasn’t too surprising, considering how busy it was. 

20 minutes later, he saw the guy leaving, throwing a hand up to one of the staff as he left. (Derek couldn’t see who it was past the treadmills.) Derek frowned. He could have sworn the man had come in just to use the showers and leave again for the second time in less than a week. It wasn’t his place to judge what the members did, but he couldn’t help but wonder at the logic. 

“What did that chest press ever do to you, Mr. Frowny Face?” Scott teased, sweeping by on his way to the break room. Derek rolled his eyes at him then moved on to the next machine. 

When he was finished, he relieved Isaac on the desk and checked the sign-in log for the last half an hour. He knew most of the names of the members who’d scanned their keychains, and the ones he didn’t recognize were all women. As far as he could tell, Shower Guy hadn’t checked in at all.

 _Odd_ , Derek thought, again.

***

Derek was manning the welcome desk again, filling out an incident report for a bloody nose, when something moved in his peripheral vision. He didn’t look up, intending to finish his sentence before greeting the incoming member as they scanned their card. But instead of approaching the desk, whoever it was walked right on by, without scanning their keychain. 

Derek looked up, and recognized Shower Guy instantly. 

“Hey,” Derek said, but the guy didn’t stop, just disappeared around the corner without looking back. 

Derek came around the desk, headed after him, but froze before he could get very far. What was he going to do if he caught the guy? He wasn’t a security guard. He wasn’t qualified to force anyone to leave. The stranger could naked by then, as well, which added a whole new level of trouble Derek could get into.

He quickly put the self-serve sign up and went in search of Erica. She was chopping avocado in the kitchen--or, more accurately, mashing it aggressively to manage her stress. Derek winced when he spotted the bananas, which were next on the executioner’s block. They’d be a mess by the time they made it out to the bar. 

“A guy just snuck into the showers,” he told her. 

Erica thankfully put down the knife. “Oh, that’s probably Stiles,” she said, matter-of-factly. 

“Who?”

“He’s Scott’s friend. His hot water is broken, or something. Scott hinted he might be using ours.”

Derek frowned. “That’s against the rules.”

Erica widened her heavily-mascaraed eyes, tilting her head in a perfect impression of the dumb blonde Derek knew she wasn’t. “What is?”

Derek clenched his fists at his sides, and enunciated slowly, “Letting a non-member use the facilities.”

“Which non-member? I don’t see anyone around. What on earth are you doing over here, Derek? Get your fantastic butt back to the desk.” She made a shooing motion with her avocado-smeared hands, far too close to Derek’s ass than was comfortable. 

“That’s sexual harassment,” Derek muttered. 

She shot him a wry look. “I’ll put a dollar in the jar.” 

(The I Got Hit On Today Jar. Whenever it happened, the hitee would stuff a dollar bill into the overflowing, bedazzled coffee canister. At first, Derek had doubted the concept, but then someone told him that the two giant leather armchairs in the staff-only break room were paid for by the jar. The jar was sacred. Long live the jar.)

***

“Scott, can I talk to you for a second?” 

“Yeah, buddy. What’s up?”

Derek knew this Stiles guy wasn’t his business. If Scott wanted to risk getting in trouble with their boss, he was free to do so. Derek could have left it alone. He _should_ have.

But it wasn’t right. The shower facilities were supposed to be for members only, not random people who happened to know an employee. The guy hadn’t even bothered with the pretense of a guest pass, just walked right in like the had a right to be there. It rubbed Derek the wrong way, and he knew he couldn’t let it go until he’d at least attempted to talk Scott out of it. 

“Is it true that you’re letting a friend use the men’s shower facilities?”

“Oh, yeah.” Scott’s blinding grin turned sheepish. “Stiles’ landlord is a jerk who won’t get the hot water fixed, so he’s been coming here sometimes. Never when it’s busy, though. I’d let him use mine, but I work weird hours, and so does my girlfriend, so it’s easier if he just comes here.” 

”That’s...that’s not really allowed,” Derek said, aware that his voice contained a hint of a nasally whine. 

Derek was a rule follower. Always had been. When his siblings would misbehave as soon as their parents left the room, Derek would toe the line, not so much afraid of the repercussions as respectful of the boundaries they’d set. Rules were always made for a reason. Just because someone disagreed with them didn’t mean they could disregard them completely. He was the type of person who stood at a crosswalk until the pedestrian signal turned on, even if there were no cars around for miles. He also threw things out the day after they expired, even if they looked and smelled fine, because there was always the slight chance that whatever it was had spoiled. 

Scott seemed like he was the kind of guy who didn’t worry so much about rules. It wasn’t that he was a trouble-maker. He did great work, and always showed up on time. Technically, he and Derek were at the same level of seniority. They all were. It was a small enough privately-owned gym that the only manager was Deaton, the owner, but he rarely came out of his office, when he came in at all. Mostly, the trainers were left to their own devices.

But because of how much longer he’d been working there than Derek, Scott still felt like his superior, so it made Derek uncomfortable when Scott begged him, “Please don’t report it to Deaton. The water will be fixed soon and he’ll be gone.” 

Derek could feel the tension in his shoulders getting worse. He’d probably have to take an antacid later for the stress heartburn this conversation was going to cause him. He sighed, trying to rub away the headache he could feel forming, and using that as an excuse not to look into Scott’s puppydog eyes. 

“I won’t tell tell Deaton,” he said, and Scott visibly relaxed. “But it’s still against the rules. If I catch him, I won’t be able to let it slide, and I won’t throw myself under the bus.”

Scott nodded, then clapped Derek on the shoulder. “That’s fair. I appreciate it, man.”

Derek awkwardly returned Scott’s fistbump, then headed to the break room to get ready for his next client. He had a feeling he was going to regret letting this go so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First third of this fic will be in Derek's POV, but the majority will be in Stiles' POV.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek finally meets the mysterious (and annoying) Stiles. Sparks fly.

On Friday, Derek was just supervising a client’s cool-down stretches when he spotted Stiles sauntering in the door, not even attempting to be subtle or sneaky. Derek’s annoyance flared, and he was heading toward Stiles before he even registered it.

“Hey,” he called, feeling self-consciously loud, even though the gym was bustling. He jumped over a bench, trying to get closer as fast as he could, without running into a sweaty jogger or falling on his face. “Stiles!” 

Stiles looked back at him, startled, but he recovered quickly, and disappeared into the showers before Derek was within reach of the welcome desk. Derek slowed to a stop, annoyed with himself that he’d even bothered. It wasn’t his business. But the damn cockiness of Stiles got to him, and he was compelled to _make_ it his business. 

“Sorry, Muriel,” he said when he got back to his client. 

She looked up at him from her side stretch with a twinkle in her eye. “Oh, I don’t mind. If I could still move like that, you bet I’d be chasing after a cute boy.” 

Derek fiddled with the zipper on his sweater and fixed his eyes on the blue vinyl mat. “Um. Yeah. Make sure you breathe deeply while you’re reaching.” 

***

Derek looked up from the guest pass he was covering with neat lines of blue ink--a habit he fell into when he was bored and there was a piece of paper lying around. Stiles himself had sauntered out of the showers, and was perusing the bulletin board with all the staff’s pictures on it, less than 10 feet away from Derek.

If Stiles’ hair wasn’t still slightly damp and his skin flushed from the hot water, Derek would never have guessed that he’d just indulged in an illicit shower, free of charge. He was calm and collected, and when he turned around to face Derek, his smile was bright. 

There wasn’t much Derek could do now that Stiles had already gotten in and made use of the facilities, so he simply glared, and asked, “Can I help you?” 

Stiles’ smile only widened. “I don’t know yet.”

Derek crossed his arms over his chest, turning up the menace on his glare. “If you aren’t going to pay for anything, I think you should leave.”

Stiles clutched his chest in exaggerated outrage. “So rude! I could be a potential customer. You never know.”

Derek didn’t bother to respond, he simply set his jaw, hoping he was radiating _yeah right_ instead of _your presence here annoys and unsettles me in ways I don’t fully understand._

“I could,” Stiles insisted, lifting his arms and flexing them pathetically. “I can curl a mean two pound weight.” 

Derek snorted. “I’ll just bet you can, with arms like those.”

“Why…” Stiles quickly and unsubtly checked Derek’s name tag. “Why, Derek, if I’d known you were looking, I would’ve worn my Sunday best.”

Derek flushed and looked down at the desk, instead of at Stiles’ coquettish pose. Derek wasn’t good at this kind of verbal sparring. He didn’t get enough practice these days, since he wasn’t around his sisters so often, but they’d always run circles around him anyway. He couldn’t think of devastating witticisms on the fly like they could, like Stiles apparently could. He could win arguments over text and in comment sections, but not face-to-face, especially not when he was already on edge from the whole unorthodox situation.

“Unless you’re willing to put a down payment on a three month trial membership, I don’t want to see your face,” he managed, fully aware that he sounded like a caricature of a power-hungry school marm, but unsure of how to stop it.

Stiles dropped the teasing act, his whole body slumping under the weight of the tremendous backpack. “Oh, come on, man. Everyone else here is on board with this. Why are you being such a dick about it?” 

“Because it’s theft,” Derek blurted. 

“Theft,” Stiles said, flatly, his eyebrows climbing. “Of hot water.” 

“Yes. Our energy bills are high enough as it is.” Derek had never actually seen the gym’s energy bills, but he didn’t think he was wrong. It cost money to keep the fluorescent lights on and the Britney Spears pumping. “Look, I get it. You need to get clean. Why don’t you go to the public pool and use the showers there? Or another friend’s house?” 

All the fight and righteous indignation seemed to go out of Stiles, but only for a brief moment, then he came back with, “I can’t afford to pay admission to the pool every other day. And for your information, I haven’t been in the city long enough to make the kind of friends that I can just show up at their house and ask to use their shower.” 

It was a perfect opportunity for Derek to back down. He could gracefully, grudgingly admit that he’d been a little too strict with the rules, and Stiles would be so grateful, he’d make sure to take as little time as possible under the hot water. They could both come out winners. 

But...not really. Derek would still be the one who backed down. And a little niggling part of him, maybe his middle child syndrome, maybe the same part that wouldn’t let him call in sick on days when he was only tired, because it wasn’t _right_...That part made him keep on pushing. 

“How unfortunate for you,” Derek said, and he could’ve sworn his uncle Peter was possessing his body. “It’s still against the rules.”

Stiles’ hopeful expression soured, and he hitched his backpack higher on his shoulders. “Yeah, yeah. Can’t bend the rules, even for just a poor boy with nobody’s sympathy. I get it. I’ll catch you later, Derek.” 

“Goodbye, Stiles,” Derek said to his retreating back. “Hope to see you never.” 

Stiles’ only response was to throw up a middle finger as he descended the escalator into the shopping centre. 

***

Out of nowhere, Stiles ran past the desk, skidding on the smooth floor and nearly tipping over when he stopped but his backpack didn’t. When he regained his balance, he spun around in the doorway of the shower, sending a triumphant look Derek’s way. 

Over the past week and a half, the door had become something of a “home free” in Derek and Stiles’ battle of wills. Derek hadn’t been surprised when Stiles quickly figured out that Derek wouldn’t actually chase him past the entrance to the showers. If he had, the current score that Derek was absolutely not keeping (unfortunately, he couldn’t stop his co-workers from doing so) would be much more in his favour. 

Derek had only managed to prevent Stiles from slipping past him the one time, and that was only because he’d been sweeping the floor in front of the welcome desk and had shooed him out with the broom handle, like he was a rodent in the pantry. Stiles’ indignant squawk had been worth the stick-figure drawing of Brave Sir Derek jousting with a mop that had appeared on the staff whiteboard the next day. 

“Awful day out, isn’t it?” Stiles asked, leaning a shoulder against the wall. Derek didn’t disagree. He’d been cooped up all morning, but members had been coming in with soaked umbrellas and muddy shoes. “Perfect day for a long, hot shower, don’t you think?”

“It would be, I suppose.” Derek tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “If you actually had a shower you could use.”

“Darn, you’re right.” Stiles snapped his fingers, shaking his head mournfully. Then, he did a theatrical doubletake at the door behind him. “Well, what do you know? This one looks to be in perfect working order.” 

“Stiles,” Derek said, in a warning tone of voice he knew wasn’t actually effective. 

“Yes, Derek? You gonna stop me?”

Stiles’ eyes twinkled tauntingly, and he assumed an indolent pose in the door frame. The bulk of his backpack prevented him from actually leaning on the door to the showers, and it forced his torso to arch slightly, revealing a thin strip of Stiles’ pale stomach. Derek swallowed and tore his eyes away from Stiles’ waistband. Then, in one smooth motion, he braced his hands on the desk and vaulted over it, landing gracefully...and much closer to Stiles than he’d been before. 

Stiles squeaked and scurried backward through the door. Derek fought back a grin, determined to ignore the laughter of his co-workers. He knew it was an impressive move, but he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that he was proud of it. He returned to behind the desk the normal way, in a much better mood. He hadn’t prevented Stiles from getting in that time, but he felt like he’d still won that battle. 

His three o’clock appointment arrived a couple minutes later, so he called Scott over to cover the desk and got to work improving Kathleen’s deadlifting technique. When he came back to relieve Scott, it took him a while to realize that his co-workers were hanging around the desk, barely smothering their laughter and not even bothering to stop their smirks. Derek was immediately suspicious, hunching into himself and checking the fly of his track pants as subtly as he could, but he found nothing out of the ordinary. His next five rapid-fire thoughts were of the things he might have done or said in the last hour that were embarrassing or odd, the shameful secret he might have revealed that he didn’t even know was shameful until they’d found out. 

He drew breath to ask what the joke was, then a new addition to the “Meet Our Staff!” bulletin board caught his eye. Tacked over his awkward, taciturn photo was a sketch of Derek, complete with thick, dark eyebrows and an hyperbolically deep frown. It was almost like a caricature--his hair could never reach those heights, and his cheekbones certainly weren’t that sharp--but it was detailed and realistic enough that Derek recognized himself instantly. 

Derek unpinned the drawing from the board and the sweet, metallic smell of fresh ink drifted off the paper as he held it up. “Very funny. Who did this?”

This was just the kind of thing that made him leave his last job. All the trainers at the gym in his home town had been thick as thieves, and Derek--anti-social at the best of times--hadn’t known how to begin to break into their circle. They’d taken his silence for snobbery, and he’d become the butt of more than one “harmless joke” that would have been easily laughed off if he’d had a single ally on the whole staff, but when faced on his own, cut deeper than he’d ever admit. 

“Don’t look at us!” Erica protested. “It was your friend.”

“What friend?” Derek didn’t have friends. Not since he’d left home. He had co-workers, he had nodding acquaintances, and he had his family, back at home hundreds of miles away. He’d accepted a long time ago that he wasn’t the type of person who made many meaningful connections with other human beings, but the tiny part of him that wished he was that type gave a pleased wriggle at the thought of anyone calling themselves his friend. 

“Stiles,” Erica said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Who else?” 

_Oh_ , Derek thought. Then it _was_ a joke, and not some kind of weird friendship ritual he didn’t understand. He looked down at the sketch in his hands, dissecting the features Stiles had chosen to exaggerate. Was this all anyone saw in him? Perpetual frown and symmetrical bone structure? 

“Stiles drew this?” He forced a laugh that he hoped didn’t sound too robotic. They were probably expecting him to implode with fury. Grouchy, fussy, rule-follower Derek. That was him. 

“Yep. He’s really good.” Scott said, his chin tilting up as he touted his friend’s virtues. “That’s why he came to New York, actually. He works for an independant graphic novel publisher. He says it doesn’t pay much, but he’s doing what he loves.” 

At first glance, the picture had seemed simple, but the longer Derek looked at it, the more details he saw. Stiles had captured the little chunk of his eyebrow that didn’t lay flat because he’d scraped it falling out of a tree. He’d remembered the dimple in Derek’s chin, which Derek secretly loved, because his dad had the same one, and he liked the thought of becoming more like his father as he got older. Stiles had also made sure to draw Derek’s frowning mouth a little bit open, so he could show Derek’s overlarge front teeth and his too-pointed canines. That part made him want to smile, because he was pretty sure his sisters would love it, and tease him for his bunny-wolf teeth.

Derek folded the sketch as nonchalantly as he could, shoving it in his pocket like he intended to throw it out later. “Well, with talent like this, I’m sure he’ll make hundreds.”

Scott smiled cheerfully. “Thanks, Derek! I’ll tell him you said that. He’ll be thrilled you liked it.” 

Derek knew Scott wasn’t dumb. Derek had witnessed him explaining the complicated science behind the exercises he got his clients to do, and no other trainer could memorize workout plans like he could. So, Derek was certain that Scott wasn’t stupid. He just didn’t know if Scott was really as naive as he appeared, or if he’d simply made a conscious choice to only see the best in everyone and everything. Either way, nothing made Derek feel more like a narcissistic, pessimistic tool.

The rest of the day passed slowly for Derek, supervised by the judgemental, scowling face of the original photo of himself on the wall.

***

“Hi, Princess.”

Derek’s cat chirped at him and rubbed against his shins as he took off his backpack and hung it on the peg closest to the sliding door of the loft. Next, he placed his keys and wallet in the lumpy clay bowl his niece made him, his name badge and water bottle to the right of that, then his black pen, blue pen and mechanical pencil above it all, lined up so the tips were all pointing the same way. 

He knelt down and stroked Princess’ head so she wouldn’t get too much hair on his pants, then toed off his shoes so he could change from nice work clothes to sloppy home clothes. Only then did he pick her up and scratch under her chin as he heated up some dinner in the microwave. According to the label on the tupperware, he was having beef stew, which suited him fine. 

“How’s my girl? Did you keep the mice away for me?”

Princess just purred and butted against his cheek. Derek took that as a yes, since he hadn’t seen any critters in the time he’d been living there. Princess had essentially come with the loft, having shown up in the hallway outside less than a week after he’d moved in. He’d put up posters in the neighbourhood, but no one had ever come for her, and she’d already thoroughly claimed the long patches of sunlight the loft’s windows cast on the floor. Derek didn’t mind. She was good company, and nice to come home to on days like this, that were full of exhausting social interaction. 

He let her perch on his shoulder as he ate over the kitchen counter, passing her morsels of potato and carrot when he felt like it. Her grey-striped body was so small and fine-boned that he’d never get tired of her parrot imitation. When they were both finished, he took her to the couch and tucked her against his side while he booted up his computer. When it groaned to life, he opened Skype and selected his parents’ joint account from the list. While it rang, he ran a finger down the downy soft patch between her ears, letting her warmth and genuine pleasure to be there soothe his jangled nerves. 

“Derek? Can you hear me?”

“Hi, Mom. Yes, you’re fine.” No matter how many times they did this, his mother was always convinced she’d answered incorrectly and caused some horrible technical glitch. “Is Dad with you?”

“I sure am. How are you, son?” 

“I’m good.” Infinitely better for having seen his parents’ faces. Back when he didn’t live 5 hours and 350 miles away from his family, he never understood the need for people to use their webcams to communicate. They had phones. What difference could a grainy livefeed make? A lot, apparently. 

Derek hadn’t expected leaving the nest to be so difficult. People grew up and left their hometown and family behind every day without feeling as isolated and lonely as Derek seemed to. He didn’t regret moving away. He wanted a career he couldn’t get back home. He liked the city, with its never-ending bustle and throb of activity. He liked his apartment, his cat, and his tiny kitchen. He just hadn’t realized how much he relied on his family to keep him human until he’d no longer had them around. 

“Your brother’s at practice,” his dad informed him, scooching farther into frame. “And you just missed your uncle. We had him over for dinner.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s Peter?”

“You know him. Never happy unless he’s complaining about something. Today, he was very happy, so needless to say, we know all about the new tenant in his building who plays his music too loud.” 

They chatted until it was truly dark outside, getting filled in on the minutiae of each other’s lives they’d missed since they’d last spoken three days ago. There wasn’t much, but Derek soaked up all of it like it was a riveting bestseller. By the time Princess had gotten bored of him and left, Cora had taken her parent’s place, telling him how her new part-time job was going. Laura wasn’t there, or she would have barged in right away. She was next on his list of people to call. (If he could call two numbers a “list.”)

“So, tell me, Derek, how’s your busy social life? You hitting up all the hottest clubs in the Big Apple?” 

Derek smiled ruefully, because he’d always known how to read between the lines of his sister’s ribbing. What she was really asking was _Are you getting out much? Do you talk to anyone besides your cat and your clients? Do I have to come down there and drag you into the land of the living?_

“I’m fine, Cora. Really. The people at work are cool, and I’m getting better at small talk with the members.” Partially true. He was getting better at knowing which members would do the talking for him, and which would expect him to lead. 

Cora hummed skeptically. “So Laura and I don’t need to knock anyone’s heads together?” 

It wouldn’t be the first time. In high school, before he’d added muscle to his tall, skinny frame, and grown into his ears and teeth and wide-set eyes, he’d stuck to his big sister’s heels like a lost puppy, and even though Cora was younger than him, she’d always been protective. It was Cora who’d convinced him to quit his last job, after pulling the worst stories out of him. He’d never have called what was happening bullying before he’d spilled about all the times his shoes had gone missing, or his schedule had been messed up, or his invitation to work lunches had been lost in the mail, and the countless other practical jokes in the name of “camaraderie.”

“No. Here, look.” He took out his phone, as well as Stiles’ drawing. “One of the, uh…” How to describe Stiles? “A _regular_ drew this for me.” 

He quickly took an acceptable, if not exceptional photo of the picture and texted it to her. In a minute, her phone chimed and she instantly burst into delighted laughter. 

“Oh my god, Der, it’s _you_!”

“I know, right?” Derek folded up the picture put it carefully on his coffee table, jostling his laptop. “He’s pretty good.” 

“Good? He’s amazing! He really captured you, bro. Warts and all.” 

Derek snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

“Mom’s gonna love this. Expect it to be framed on your next visit.” 

“I’ll hold her to it.” 

Cora looked at her watch and deflated a bit. “I’m sorry, Derek. I really need to finish reading a chapter for class tomorrow.” 

Derek checked the time on his laptop. It’d gotten late, and he hadn’t even noticed. “That’s fine. We’ll talk soon.” 

“Definitely. Say hello to Laura for me.” 

“I will. As if you haven’t texted her that picture already.” 

“You know it.” The window went black, then flashed with a _call ended_ message. Derek got up to stretch his legs and rest his eyes before he called Laura. His niece would already be asleep, so there wasn’t really any rush. Princess jumped down from the spiral staircase and started meowing, so he got her can of wet food from the fridge and doled out her nightly mouse-sized portion. She tucked in, and he wandered back to the couch. On his coffee table, the picture had come partially unfolded, so he picked it up and took it over to the table by the door, carefully tucking it into the mirror he’d hung over top of it, in case he developed a streak of vanity. 

The 8x11 paper covered most of the mirror, but Derek thought that maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. It didn’t really matter what he thought he looked like. What was important was how other people viewed him. He liked the picture, sort of. He thought it captured him at his default: Vaguely concerned about something. Maybe seeing it on his way out the door every day would remind him to smile more. He certainly had a lot to smile about. His family, even though they were five hours away. His job, despite the boring parts. The clients he got along with, the apartment that was perfect for him. His health. 

What did it matter if he didn’t have any friends in the city, and his romantic life was pretty pitiful? There were plenty more things in life to be happy about.


	3. Chapter 3

Most of Derek’s clients were women. Mothers who wanted to look fantastic for their child’s wedding photos. Young women who wanted to make a change in their lives. Grandmothers who wanted to make sure they could run after their grandkids as they got older. That was fine with Derek. He genuinely liked most of them, and once they got over his intimidating first impression, they seemed to like him too, even if he wasn’t as chatty as the other trainers. 

One exception was Boyd. Boyd was a firefighter, the type who specialized in carrying people out of buildings. He was very capable, and knew his way around the gym, but his crazy schedule meant it was difficult to find a steady partner to train with, so he basically paid Derek to be a highly over-qualified spotting partner, and to tell him when he was lifting too much too quickly. 

He and Boyd made a great team, since they were both men of few words. Sometimes, entire sessions would go by without them having exchanged more than a greeting and a goodbye. Derek had considered asking Boyd if he’d be interested in catching a baseball game or something, as friends outside of their training, but he always chickened out, afraid that the companionable silence they achieved in the gym would be awkward when they were at a bar or on Derek’s couch. 

Today, Boyd’s session went really well, and not just because Boyd had managed more reps than usual. During a rest period, Derek had gathered the courage to make an offhand comment about the music that was playing, and they’d had a nice, normal conversation about their tastes. It gave Derek the burst of confidence he needed, and at the end of the hour, he was just about to ask if Boyd would grab a beer with him some time, when there was a loud burst of laughter to his right. 

Across the gym, Stiles was running in. When he got to the door of the shower, he skidded to a stop, but his huge backpack kept on going, pulling him off balance. Derek was too late to shout a warning to Mrs. Jenkins, an inconceivably old woman who came in for the yoga classes three times a week. Stiles missed her, but not by much, and only because she had surprising reflexes and agility for someone her age, and she stumbled back just in time. Stiles barely paused, stuttering an apology and ducking into the showers, his stupid backpack getting stuck in the door before it too disappeared. 

Derek said a curt goodbye to Boyd before striding over to a dazed Mrs. Jenkins to make sure she was alright. She’d never been better, she told him, which, on one hand, settled his concern over her health, but on the other, didn’t put him very much at ease. (Mrs. Jenkins was singlehandedly responsible for a third of the bills in the I Got Hit On Today Jar.) She left, and instead of finding some chore to do, Derek went in search of Scott, taking deep breaths to keep from blowing up at him. Scott wasn’t directly to blame for what could have been a serious incident, but that didn’t mean he was completely innocent. 

Derek hadn’t been so pissed off since his first week at Get Fit!, when a sleazy new member had slapped an uninterested woman’s ass, then threatened legal action when Derek had called security to have him tossed out. 

Stomping through the gym, all Derek could see in his head was Mrs. Jenkins falling, her hip breaking, her wavering voice crying out in pain. Over and over again, the fall, the injury, the scream, like an unskippable advertisement glitching to repeat eternally. He knew it hadn’t happened. It had barely come close to happening, but he still couldn’t stop the replay. The fall. The snap of brittle bone. The scream. 

He found Scott by the treadmills, patiently and kindly informing a member that no, he couldn’t help them recreate that one OK Go video. He waited until Scott was finished, then wordlessly directed him to a quiet corner of the gym. 

“Is there a problem, Derek?” He asked, cautiously.

“Yes, there is. Your friend Stiles is the problem.”

Scott winced. “I know, it’s been weeks. I asked him how the hell his hot water could still be broken. It took some probing questions, but I found out that he was late with the rent this month. He says he’s really close to scraping up the cash, but his hot water’s shut off until then.” 

Derek blinked. Had it been weeks already? He hadn’t really noticed. He’d gotten into such a rhythm of chasing and failing to catch Stiles that the days had started to go by a bit quicker. But that wasn’t what he wanted to talk to Scott about. 

“He’s a danger to the other members.”

“Hey, now, that’s not--”

“Mrs. Jenkins nearly fell because Stiles was running too fast.” 

Scott blinked, clearly shocked, but he recovered quickly. “It was an accident, I’m positive. And he wouldn’t have to run so fast if _someone_ would just let him in here without getting on his case about it all the time.” 

There was the stubborn streak Scott had. It was normally turned on clients who needed an extra push to finish a set, but that didn’t mean Derek wasn’t ready for it. “Don’t try to put this on me. Letting a non-member use the facilities is against our policies--”

“I know, you’ve only mentioned it a hundred times.”

“--And I can’t make an exception to our rules, even for an employee’s friend.” 

“Why not?” Scott demanded.

Derek was taken aback. Whenever he’d dug his heels in before--whether for something small like not sweeping the floor like they were supposed to, or bigger, like refusing to leave 15 minutes before the end of his shift, even though the gym was empty--no one had ever questioned him. They might have rolled their eyes or grumbled about the stick up his ass, but they’d always conceded that he was right to keep them on the straight and narrow. 

“Because...because it’s not right.” The words sounded stupid as soon as they left his mouth. 

“What isn’t? Letting one guy use a few gallons of hot water when he’s down on his luck? That’s bullshit, and you know it.” 

“I...” Scott’s eyes were blazing, and Derek couldn’t get his calm back to form a response that was anywhere near well-spoken or professional. “I don’t have to take this from you, Scott.” 

Shit, Derek thought. That was the wrong thing to say. Scott’s jaw set, his shoulders squared, and he abandoned all pretense that this was was a friendly discussion between coworkers. 

“Well, excuse me, but I don’t have to take your shit either. We’re supposed to be a team, Derek, and all you’ve done since you started working here was push us away and act like you’re better than everyone else because you make sure the coffee pot is kept at exactly 175 degrees fahrenheit and all the goddamn pens are facing the same direction.” 

This was Derek’s worst nightmare realized. Scott’s voice was loud enough that it could definitely be heard over early-2000s pop currently crooning over the speakers, and Derek could feel the stares of curious members on his back. He hated being the centre of attention, absolutely detested it, and it was even worse when the reason for everyone’s eyes to be on him was because he was getting berated by someone he’d thought was close to being a friend. 

This always happened. No matter where he lived, or what group he desperately wanted to be included in, his inability to be a normal human being came back to bite him in the ass. He didn’t know how to smile brightly without looking like a creepy serial killer, or make a joke without it coming off snarky or unfunny, so he played it safe, waited for other people to make the first overture, and ended up alienating himself from everyone. Then, his stupid brain wouldn’t let him bend the rules, even just a little bit, and the people he respected thought he was stuck up or downright mean. 

Every. Single. Time. His old job. The other people in his apartment building. His disastrous attempt to join a community basketball team. He really should just stop trying. Hole himself up in his apartment. Stop caring what other people thought of him at work. The treacherous hope that this time, _this time_ , things would be different, was only hurting him in the end. 

He felt like he should say something in his defense, but once again, all of his vocabulary had fled, and all he could do was clench his jaw and look to the right of Scott’s face. It didn’t matter, though, because Scott wasn’t finished. 

“Sometimes people mess up, Derek. You can’t always expect them to be perfect every moment of every day, like you. And running into somebody doesn't make them a danger to society.” 

“That’s not what I said.” _Oh, great, Derek_ , he thought. _That’s very helpful in de-escalating this situation._

“You might as well have. It isn’t your job to police everybody, like you’re the boss--”

“Scott. That’s enough.”

Stiles was standing about five feet away from them, his T-shirt damp in patches, like he hadn’t had time to dry off properly. Behind him, Derek could see Isaac hovering behind a rack of weights. Had the two of them heard the whole thing? Probably. More to the point, did they agree?

Scott shouldered past Derek and stomped off. Derek didn’t see where he went, because he’d fixed his eyes on the floor in front of him. He had about half an hour of his shift left, then he could go home. He just had to make it through that without looking any of his colleagues in the eye, or pissing them all off with his habits. He counted to 10 and back down to 1, then turned around, ready to hide in the supply cupboard organizing things until he could leave, but he didn’t expect Stiles to still be standing there.

“I’m sorry about him,” Stiles said, jerking his head in the direction where Scott must have gone. “He can be a dick when he’s feeling defensive. And he’s really good at poking at the things you most wish he’d leave alone. It’s one of his greatest talents, actually, besides picking things up and putting them down a bunch of times in a row. I’ve been on the receiving end of it myself, and it isn’t fun.”

Derek shook his head. He didn’t need Stiles’ platitudes. “It’s fine. I deserved it.” 

“No, you didn’t. It was uncalled for,” Stiles insisted, then he shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans. “If it makes you feel any better, Scott’ll be tearing himself up with guilt almost immediately. Expect a heartfelt apology tomorrow.” 

“I don’t work tomorrow.” 

“Even better. Let him stew a little longer. He’ll rewrite his speech at least three times, it’ll be really tear-jerking, I promise.” 

Derek’s breathy almost-laugh surprised him a bit, but he appreciated it anyway. He shook out his shoulders, squared them, nodded to Stiles, then headed to the supply cupboard. He could survive another half hour. Then, he had a whole weekend to build up his shields again, and practice his neutral face in the mirror. Evidently, he’d slipped back into his old default of looking pissed off. 

He started with the gallon jugs of sanitizer first, filling some empty spray bottles right up to the top. The third bottle nearly fell to the floor with the force of Derek’s fumbling when he heard Stiles’ voice right next to him.

“The glamourous life of a trainer, huh?” 

Derek righted the bottle and adjusted his grip on it, then scowled at Stiles. “It isn’t all shouting people’s abs into making an appearance.” 

Stiles leaned against the door of the supply closet, like he had every right to be there pestering Derek. “I wouldn’t know. Scott never tells me what goes on in this place. Not the good stuff, anyway.”

“Well, client confidentiality--”

“I know, I know. That’s important, I guess.” 

“Very.” Derek screwed the cap tightly onto the bottle, then chose another empty one from the shelf and started filling it too. Stiles watched all of it with a faint smile. The scrutiny turned grating quickly. “Was there something I could help you with, Stiles? Setting up a membership, for instance?” 

Stiles’ smile widened into a cheeky grin, and he snapped his fingers into a gun shape. “Ha, nice try, buddy. I’m still thinking about it. Consider this a trial membership.” 

“Your trial period ended after three days.” 

“Three days consecutively, or three days total when added up in 20 minute increments?”

“The first one.” 

Stiles slumped into the doorjamb, pressing his hands to his cheeks like _The Scream_. “Darn. Guess I’ll have to keep saving up for it.” 

Derek put both the bottle and the jug back down, then wiped his hands on a piece of paper towel off the industrial-sized roll. However amusing their conversation had been, he hadn’t forgotten that his shitty day was, at least in part, Stiles' fault, and the casual way Stiles talked about it used up the last drop of patience Derek had. 

“Why don’t you save up for rent money instead, and get your hot water back,” he snapped. “That would solve all our problems.”

Stiles’ shoulder slipped off the door and he nearly stumbled into the boxes of light bulbs. When he recovered, he had the nerve to look genuinely confused for a second, before he must have decided not to play dumb. He laughed, a fake one, and rubbed his hand through his short hair. “Yeah, uh. It’s a tough world out there for millennials. Can’t live without my Starbucks, you know?”

“Seriously, Stiles,” Derek said, with as much volume as he dared, given that the closet door was still open and the members had heard enough staff drama today. “What you pulled today wasn’t cool. Someone could have gotten hurt.”

Stiles winced and shoved his hands in his pockets again, chastened this time, instead of cocky. “I know. It was stupid. I’ll make sure to slow down next time.” 

“Good.” Derek went back to his bottles, and Stiles picked up his backpack from the floor shrugging it on and bashing it against the wall as he left. It took Derek a good five seconds to replay the conversation. “Wait. That’s not what I meant,” he called after Stiles. 

“What?” Stiles yelled, completely unconcerned with the members who were poking their heads up like meerkats. “I can’t hear you. Must be all the excellent hot water in my ears.” 

Stiles darted out the door. Derek watched him go, intensely aware of the other trainers who were, for once, all lingering around the entrance, viewing Derek’s shame. Stiles always seemed to get the last word, which was unsurprising, seeing as he usually got the first, second and third words as well. Thankfully, Erica and Isaac seemed to be laughing with him, not at him. (He hoped. He’d probably pick apart their teasing smiles that night when he laid awake in bed.) Scott didn’t seem to be feeling anything. He kept his eyes trained on the bulletin board, where he was pinning a sign about the upcoming closures for the long weekend. 

“Scott. Can I talk to you for a minute?” Deaton said from the door to his office, startling them all. 

In the short time Derek had been working at Get Fit!, he’d learned that Deaton wasn’t a boss who micro-managed or, really, managed at all. As long as they were still making more money than they were spending, he was happy to let them do as they pleased. So, typically, getting called into the office meant nothing good. 

Scott’s mouth worked like a fish’s for a second, then he stuttered an affirmative reply and walked through the door like he was marching to his own death. When the door closed with a foreboding snap, Erica and Isaac both looked at Derek with matching accusing expressions. He stumbled back from the force of their glaring, shutting the door to the closet so he didn’t have to see the betrayed looks they’d certainly be throwing his way. 

He found things to neaten up in there until the alarm on his watch went off, signalling the end of his shift. He was suddenly grateful he hadn’t brought a jacket to work, since it meant he could take the quickest path to the exit, barely acknowledging Erica and Isaac’s presence before he was down the stairs, through the mall and on his way home. 

He counted his steps all the way to his apartment, a calming habit he’d thought he’d broken a long time ago. When he dragged himself up the stairs, weighed down by more than his normal tiredness from work, he wanted to fall into this bed immediately, but he just couldn’t. First, he had to empty his pockets. Wallet and keys first, into the bowl. Then badge and water bottle. Pens and pencil last.

His stupid, necessary ritual eased one fractional knot of tension, but it was like throwing a cup of water on a raging blaze. He shucked off his work clothes, wishing he could shed the worries that went along with them just as easily, and scooped up Princess from the floor. Together, they burrowed deep under the blanket, shutting out the world and all its chaos and disappointment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild Warning: Clothing disparity and very _very_ slight dub-con vibe, but not really. More info in end notes.

Derek had never wanted to call in sick as badly as he did after his weekend was over. It wouldn’t be so difficult; He only had three appointments with clients that day, and it wasn’t likely to be busy enough that he’d leave the other trainers scrambling. It would probably be better to give them another 24 hours away from him, to decompress or something. The stress level was probably much lower without him there annoying everyone with his habits. Or his entire presence.

But when the snooze button on his alarm went off for the third time, he stood up from where he’d already been sitting on his bed deliberating for 20 minutes. He brushed his teeth, took a shower, and grabbed a granola bar to eat on the way, since his routine was messed up by spending all that time debating with himself. 

One of the foremost reasons why he didn’t call Deaton and beg off to spend another day wallowing in self-pity with only his cat for company was his perfect record. He hadn’t taken a sick day at any of his jobs in the past five years, and he didn’t want to start now. Another reason, almost as important as keeping his streak going was that if he didn’t go back to work that day, it would make it easier to call in sick the next day. Or just not show up at all. There were plenty of gyms in New York City, in his neighbourhood even. He was highly trained and had lots of experience, so he was sure he could get a job at any of them, even if he left Get Fit! on less than amicable terms. 

But all those gyms had employees just like Get Fit! who would start off being friendly, then grow more and more annoyed with his by-the-book ways, or just get bored by his lack of social skills and shun him. It’d be just the same, whether he went back home, to another borough of NYC or another state. He’d start off hopeful, but end up disappointed. At least at his current job he’d built up a client base of people he liked. Like Boyd, who talked as little as he did. Or Maria, who’d lost three dress sizes and gained so much confidence. Or Gail, who told off-colour jokes to try and make him lose count of the number of push-ups she’d done. (He never lost count. Ever.)

His altercation with Scott may have soured the atmosphere, and he might have to start popping Tums like candy again, but he didn’t want to become just a memory the current employees scoffed at. _Remember that guy, Derek? Man, what buzzkill he was._ No. He was going to stand his ground. 

His conviction wavered as he entered the mall and made his way past the shoppers to the upper level. It was all well and good to plan to take the high road, but faced with the entrance and the welcome desk where Erica stood with her back to him, he wished he’d stayed at home with Princess. She wouldn’t look at him like he was scum on the bottom of her shoe. (Well, paw.)

However, when Derek finally crossed the threshold, and rounded the desk to the door of the staffroom, Erica didn’t curl her lip at him. She smiled. Not a toothy, predatory grin, or a cruel, twisted smirk, but just...a smile. Derek returned it tentatively, then pushed through the door before his stress heartburn burned a hole in his esophagus. 

He didn’t get much relief, since Isaac was sitting at the table on his phone, obviously on his break. He looked up when the door closed, and said, brightly, “Hey, Derek.” 

“Hello,” Derek replied, automatically, before his brain had time to catch up. When it did, he nearly dropped his water bottle in shock. Isaac had never sounded so friendly towards him. Isaac was a little more reserved than Scott and Erica, and when Derek had first arrived, he’d thought he might find a kindred spirit in him, but it turned out that he was only quiet around people he didn’t know. When he was with anyone he liked, he was plenty outgoing. Derek had just never been counted among the people who were privy to Isaac’s sly sense of humour. 

“You have a good weekend?” Isaac asked. 

“Uh.” He hadn’t. Not at all. But that wasn’t really what Isaac wanted to hear. Was Derek being set up for some kind of joke, he wondered? Had Isaac guessed how shitty Derek’s weekend would be? Was he waiting for him to try and deny it, so he could tear him down with a wry, devastating comment? That didn’t seem like the Isaac he’d been coming to know, but given Derek’s luck… “It was fine?” 

“That’s good. Oh, there’s some frozen yogurt bar things in the freezer, if you want one.”

“I...thanks.” It was 10 in the morning, so Derek didn’t feel much like dessert, but he looked in the tiny, overfull freezer anyway. Sure enough, there was a cardboard box full of strawberry and raspberry flavoured frozen yogurt on a stick, each sealed individually and looking completely harmless. Derek had put his trust in free food before, and ended up with a couple layers of his tongue being burned off by hot sauce, but there was no evidence of these things having been tampered with. 

He closed the freezer, more than a little confused, but a little less anxious than before. He put his lunch in the fridge and his backpack in his locker, still slightly dazed and of course, still wary. He went out on the floor of the gym, adjusting the levels of some machines to get ready for his first client, who’d probably be late, since she had to get her daughters to the babysitter. 

“Hey, Derek. Could I talk to you a minute?” Scott said behind him, and Derek dropped the weight plate with a loud clank. 

“Sure.” He trailed after Scott to the same quiet corner they’d had their last “chat” in, his throat tightening from dread. One good thing about the situation was that Scott hadn’t been fired, evidently. Derek was relieved. Scott was a great trainer. He was so earnest and encouraging, and not intimidating at all. Guys liked to joke around with him, and women found him non-threatening, so he had a full client roster. He didn’t deserve to get reprimanded by Deaton because of Derek’s overactive moral compass. 

“I didn’t tell Deaton anything,” Derek said, before Scott could speak. 

“What?” Scott looked genuinely confused, then he shook his head. “Oh, that. I know you didn’t. Deaton just wanted to tell me that one of Erica’s clients didn’t think they were bonding that well, so she wanted to switch. It was no big deal.”

It happened sometimes. Trainers and their clients had a strangely intimate relationship, so they had to mesh really well. It really wasn’t a big deal at all, and realizing that sent such a wave of relief through Derek that he felt a little light-headed.

“That’s good,” he said, when his lungs loosened in his chest. Scott still had plenty of reason to dislike him, but at least that was one less black mark against him on their track record. 

“Yeah. Listen, I wanted to apologize for what I said.” 

“You what?” 

“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it, and it was really dickish of me to get on your case for trying to do the right thing. It wasn’t fair, and I should have been able to handle it like an adult, instead of a bratty kid who didn’t get his way. I hope you can forgive me.” 

Stiles had tried to tell Derek that Scott would apologize. Derek had dismissed it as wishful thinking, and prepared himself to get the cold shoulder from Scott for as long as they both worked there. To say he was surprised at Scott’s heartfelt words and chastened expression would be an understatement of the highest degree. 

“It’s fine,” Derek said, even though it would take a while for him to build up his shield again after Scott had broken it down with well-aimed barbs. “I overreacted.”

Scott shook his head. “No, you didn’t. It’s one thing for Stiles to come in here and use the showers, and another for him to be running around disrupting everyone. I talked to him, and he’s gonna calm down. He also said...well, nevermind.”

Derek’s curiosity spiked with the mention of Stiles. “What did he say?”

Scott rubbed a hand through his hair, grimacing with something that looked like regret. “He just...reminded all of us that quiet doesn’t mean snobby or unfriendly or unkind. Sometimes, it just means quiet.” 

_All of us_. So, Stiles was the reason why Erica and Isaac hadn’t started glaring at him when they thought he couldn’t see. Why? Derek had done nothing but make his life difficult for the last few weeks, and he didn’t see himself being able to quit any time soon. What reason could Stiles have to try and convince Derek’s co-workers that he wasn’t actually as much of an asshole as they probably thought? 

Scott smiled, and Derek realized that he was being as quiet as Stiles had said he was. “That’s nice of him,” he blurted out, not really sure what else he could say to break the silence.

“Stiles is a nice guy, usually.” Scott sobered. “I can’t promise that he won’t still sneak in here for a while longer, but I respect your right to try and stop him. I’m cool if you’re cool.” 

Derek nodded. “I don’t know if cool is the word I’d choose, but...we’re good.” 

“Hey, I’ll have you know that I’m considered very cool back home, since me and Stiles were the only ones to move to the Big Apple and live like big shots.” 

Derek panicked. His attempted at self-deprecating humour hadn’t come out right, as usual. “No, that’s not what I meant, I--”

“It’s cool, Derek,” Scott interrupted, then he chucked him on the shoulder in a gesture that reminded Derek of his dad. “I knew what you meant.” 

***

Derek had been prepared to internalize even more, to speak when spoken to and only interact with the people at work as much as he had to, but the other trainers refused to let him. They started making sure to start conversations with him on shared breaks, asking his opinion on things they’d always done perfectly well alone, and not making a big deal out of his quirks. (No one said a word when he remade an out of order sign for a machine seven times.)

It was a little exhausting to be constantly confronted by social interaction, but it was also nice. He still picked apart everything anyone said about him for hidden meanings or subtle sarcasm but it was harder to convince himself that they hated him when they sought out his company again and again.

None of them came right out and said it, but he gathered that Stiles had read them each the riot act about friendly workplaces. It embarrassed him a little bit that he had to get assistance from a sort-of-acquaintance to get along with his peers, but he couldn’t deny that it’d helped. 

***

On Friday, they got a call from the cleaning service Deaton employed, who took care of all the scrubbing the trainers refused to do. They came every two weeks or so, but this week, because of the long weekend, they were understaffed for a few days. Usually, that would be no problem, but their last appointment had been cancelled because of a bout of flu that struck most of their cleaners. 

Deaton informed them that he’d had two choices: Spend his valuable time researching and hiring another, last minute cleaning service that he couldn’t trust and wouldn’t give him his lower loyalty rate, or get the people he already had on his payroll to put on some rubber gloves and stop being whiny babies. Derek was filling a bucket with hot soapy water before Deaton had told them which option he chose. 

It wasn’t so bad. They kept the gym open later than they normally would, and their paychecks would be bigger as a result. Derek didn’t mind cleaning, especially when he had help. The place was dirtier than it would normally be, but it wasn’t like he was mucking out stables. He was an adult. He was fine with it. 

That was, until he lost the coin toss and was assigned the shower as his area of focus. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the shower was empty. Or if there was some random member in there he could nod at, then continue his work. But, no. Of course, he had to go in there when Stiles was paying his almost-daily visit. He couldn’t even put it off by 20 minutes. They wanted to be out of there in 45, and if he had any hope of finishing on time, he needed to get going immediately. 

Armed with a spray bottle and a scrub brush, Derek started on the first empty stall. As he attacked the walls and the soap scum-covered taps, he tried very hard not to listen to anything that was going on in the farthest stall. It wasn’t like there was anything to hear. There was the occasional squelch of the shampoo dispenser on the wall, and the slap of water flung against the curtain as Stiles obviously cleaned himself like a normal human being. Derek didn’t know why he was feeling so awkward about being in the same room. 

Well, he did know. He just didn’t like to think about how painfully attracted he was to Stiles, especially when he was 15 feet away from Stiles’ naked skin. Then 10 feet, then 5 feet, as he worked his way through the stalls. Finally, the only one left was the one Stiles currently occupied, so Derek turned his attention to the mirror and the row of sinks. While he wiped away condensation, leaving a streaky path of Windex bubbles, he avoided his own eyes, feeling like a pervert, even though he had every right to be in the showers doing his job. 

It was because of his reluctance to meet his own gaze that he happened to be looking in Stiles’ direction when he pulled back the curtain and stepped out, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and a shocked expression on his face. They both froze, their eye contact in the mirror lasting way longer than what was normal. 

“I…” Stiles started, his eyes darting to the pile of his clothes on the bench in front of stalls, then back to Derek’s. “I thought you wouldn’t…”

 _Wouldn’t bother him if he actually made it to the showers_ was what Stiles probably meant to say. It was true. They had a sort of unspoken agreement that it was game over once Stiles crossed the threshold. Derek wasn’t thrilled about Stiles being there, but he wouldn’t actually call mall security or Deaton on him, especially if he was in such a vulnerable position. They might exchange some barbs on Stiles’ way out, but they both knew Stiles won the moment his feet hit tile. 

“I’m just cleaning,” Derek said, lifting his spray bottle and cloth and finally looking back to the mirror, away from Stiles’ wide, nervous eyes. Stiles’ shoulders sagged with relief, and he adjusted his grip on the towel. Derek’s gaze was immediately drawn, against his will, to the place where Stiles’ long fingers were a pretty flushed pink against the white of the terry cloth, reflected in the mirror for Derek to see. Derek’s mouth went dry and he saw Stiles’ tongue peek out to wet his lips, which were redder than the fingers. 

Derek’s skin felt too tight and like it could melt off at the same time in the handful of seconds that they looked at each other. He wasn’t the best at social cues, he knew this, but he could have sworn that what they were caught in was a sticky mire of reluctant mutual attraction. The moment had gone on too long for simple awkwardness, hadn’t it? And wouldn’t Stiles have just laughed off his presence and made a joke if he wasn’t struck by the same electric-charged craving? 

The moment passed before Derek could make up his mind about whether or not they were even having a moment. Stiles grinned widely and snagged his jeans from the bench, then turned his back to Derek to start putting them on. Derek returned to scrubbing the mirror, but in his peripheral vision he saw snatches of pale underarms, visible ribs and the curve of a knobby spine, none of which Derek could say were particular turn-ons for him, but he still worried that he was a complete creeper for even noticing them.

He started on the first of the four sinks, trading his glass cleaner for some cheap foamy stuff that he didn’t have a lot of faith in. While he attacked a hard blob of stuck-on toothpaste, Stiles filled the sink on the other end of the counter with water and started shaving. There wasn’t much to shave, in Derek’s opinion, but he supposed not everyone was cursed with a permanent five o’clock shadow like he was. 

The sound of the razor scritching across Stiles’ cheeks and neck was maddening, especially as Derek finished the second sink and moved on to the third one, which was right next to the one Stiles was using. It was driving Derek crazy, imagining how smooth the skin would be when Stiles was finished. He wondered if Stiles’ skin got irritated after, whether it would get pink and sensitive if Derek kissed him long and hard. 

“Can I help you?”

Derek jumped and dropped his bottle in the sink. Stiles had finished shaving, and was looking at Derek with an unimpressed lift of his eyebrow. _Shit_ , Derek thought. He hadn’t even realized he’d been zoning out with his eyes latched on the angle of Stiles’ jaw. 

“No. I’m good.” 

Stiles pulled his T-shirt over his head, and when his face emerged, it was adorned with a sharp smirk. “So, was there a reason you were staring at me? Fitting me for a suit, maybe?”

Derek could feel his skin flush with embarrassment. If he told Stiles he’d been lusting after him, Stiles might take it badly. Would _probably_ take it badly, actually. He’d think that Derek had come in there in the first place to try and get a peek, which was totally wrong, but not too crazy a leap to make, if Derek admitted he was attracted to him. No. The truth wasn’t acceptable, so his lie had to be plausible. 

“I just...think you should seriously consider getting a membership,” Derek decided, thinking quickly. “Put some muscle on. You’ve got the frame for it. You could lift some weights some time, gain a little bulk.” 

The smile on Stiles’ face slid off and was replaced by an angry line. With jerky movements, he shoved his ziploc bag of toiletries into the top of his backpack, then turned on Derek, his pointer finger stiff and accusing in Derek’s face. “Well, I think you should keep your opinions to yourself.” 

Derek flinched back from Stiles’ hand. “I didn’t mean--”

“You know what? Fuck you and whatever you _meant_.” Stiles hitched his backpack higher, glaring at Derek as he shouldered past. “Asshole,” he muttered as he shoved his way out the heavy door, a little patch of white shaving foam glowing like a beacon. 

The tap Stiles had been using dripped steadily, loud as a drum in the silent showers. The wash cloth Derek had been using got colder in his hand the longer he stood there, not putting it to use. What the hell just happened? He knew he could come across a little blunt sometimes, but he didn’t think he’d been that bad. They were in a gym, and Derek was a personal trainer...wouldn’t Stiles expect that he’d be encouraged to Get Fit!™? Derek looked down at the greyish rag in his hand, replaying the conversation in his head. Maybe he’d touched a nerve. Perhaps Stiles had been bullied in high school for his tendency toward skinniness. Regardless, Derek had obviously offended him, and he needed to come up with a way to tell Stiles he was sorry that didn’t involve the words “but I still think you’re hot.” Somehow, he didn’t think that would go over well. 

***

”Erica, could you let me know if Stiles comes in?” 

Erica didn’t look up from the strawberry she was viciously beheading, but she nodded, so Derek left her to it. (From the amount of fruit she wasted by being pissed off that she was the only one of them who could even pretend to be able to handle a knife, Derek was surprised there was anything left for the actual smoothies.) 

Stiles tended to come in every other day, and never around the peak times of seven, noon and five, so his visits were pretty easy to predict. On a quiet Sunday like this one, Stiles was likely to come in after lunch, and Derek wanted to make sure to catch him, even though he’d be in the machine room with a roll of paper towel and a spray bottle of sanitizer. (Oh joy. Oh bliss.) They had the self-serve sign on the front desk, so Erica wasn’t actually watching that closely, but she could at least hear if someone came in. 

Sure enough, half an hour later Erica leaped up to the chin-up bar beside him, swinging her legs over and hanging like a monkey. “Hey, Der. Your love-hate relationship just walked in,” she said, like she was barely expending any effort. 

“Don’t call me Der,” he said, automatically, ignoring the last part of her sentence and continuing to sanitize. He’d already tried to get her to stop calling Stiles that, but she was stubborn, and he could pick his battles. 

“What, you prefer Ek?” 

“I prefer my name.” 

She swung down, her running shoes hitting the well-sprung floor with a musical tappity-tap. “Tough. I’m a name-shortener. I shorten names. You hang around here long enough, you’ll learn I don’t use any more syllables than I have to.” 

Derek stopped mid-swipe and gave Erica a look he hoped looked like _I’m indulging you_ rather than _I’m powerless to stop you._ “Not Der.”

“Then what? I’m open to suggestions.” 

He sighed, turning over his short name (Very short. Short enough that it hadn’t lent itself well to juvenile wordplay by playground bullies, thank god) in his head to try and find something acceptable. “Maybe just the first letter?” 

Erica’s red-painted mouth curved in a grin that had Derek legitimately concerned for his soul. “D. Oh my gosh, that’s perfect. Next time everyone else comes in, I’m gonna tell them you wanna be called Big D.” 

“That’s not what I said!” Derek called after her helplessly when she sauntered away. “What happened to losing syllables?”

“I think Big D rolls off the tongue a little better. Don’t you, Big D?” 

“No.” 

He received only a cackle in response, which echoed through the gym. It probably wouldn’t have sounded so witchy if [ Evil Woman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s98UgBSNoL4) hadn’t been playing in the background.

Derek shook his head, then went back to cleaning the headrest of a chest press machine. He had at least 15 minutes before he could actually go and find Stiles. While he sprayed and wiped, he couldn’t fight the tiny, pleased grin that Erica’s antics had caused. At his last couple of workplaces, if anyone wasn’t calling him by his name, it was because they were giving him some backhanded compliment. Here, even though Derek rolled his eyes, it truly felt like a nickname that came out of affection, not malice.

After a while, he looked down at his watch and figured it’d been long enough that Stiles would probably be decent enough to hold a conversation. He headed in the direction of the showers, but hesitated outside of the door. It was thick enough that he couldn’t be sure if the lack of obvious water noises he heard was because the showers were all off, or if it was because it was sufficiently soundproofed. He didn’t dare crack it open an inch, since he would disintegrate with embarrassment if Stiles saw him peeking in like a kid looking through the crack in a toilet stall. 

He looked down at his watch again. It had been 17 minutes since Erica had come to bother him, and Stiles never took longer than 18. (Not that Derek had been keeping track. At least not purposefully. If he was always aware in the back of his mind that Stiles was on the premises and more than likely unclothed, then it was an accident.) Derek took a steadying breath and 23 seconds to find his confidence, and went over the things he planned to say in his head. It was difficult to apologize sincerely for something he hadn’t ever thought would require one, but he was going to do his best. He’d gotten tips from his sisters about how not to come across as gruff and bitch-faced as usual, and he’d chosen his words carefully. All he had to do was push open the door and start the conversation. 

Squaring his shoulders, Derek shoved his way into the room, prepared to be faced with Stiles’ shirtless body as he finished up his shaving routine. Instead, he saw nothing. No one. He could hear a drain gurgling, but not much else. He frowned, wondering if he’d missed Stiles by that much, but he didn’t have to wonder long. 

A metallic screech announced the opening of a curtain, then Stiles stepped out of one of the stalls, dripping wet, without a neat, folded toga-like covering like he’d had last time. No, this time, he just held one of the gym’s small towels (way too small, another common complaint by members.) in front of his junk, leaving his lower belly and wide strips of thigh bare to Derek’s startled gaze.

“Jesus, what are you--” Stiles sputtered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--uh. I just wanted--”

“Turn around, oh my god!”

“Sorry!” Derek whipped around to face the wall, shielding his eyes from the mirror in his periphery. Behind him, he heard some frantic flapping, then nothing but muffled fabric folding noises. 

“Okay, I’m good.”

Derek thought he’d turn around to see a partially, if not fully-clothed Stiles. Not so. Stiles had knotted the rectangular towel around his waist, like he had the last time they’d been in this room together, but this time, the inches of white terry cloth seemed way too few. His knees were barely covered, and the contrast of his pale skin against the dark line of hair that marched down under the towel drew Derek’s eyes like a magnet. 

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” Stiles said, with a tight smile that was there and gone again in an instant. 

Derek swallowed, panic erasing the script he’d prepared for himself. “Sorry...sorry, I thought you’d be...I’m sorry. I just--I’ll go.”

“No, wait. What do you want?” Stiles managed to sound both suspicious and resigned. He didn’t wait for Derek’s response. Instead, he walked over to the towel rack at the end of the row of sinks, grabbing an even smaller towel and rubbing it over his hair, then his arm, and across his glistening chest. The sight of Stiles’ skin--beaded with cooling water between patterns of dark moles--shouldn’t have been so distracting, but Derek had to look at the floor to even have a hope of producing a sound that resembled English. 

“I just wanted to apologize for last time. What I said. I didn’t mean to say that you’re too skinny. You’re good-looking.” Stiles’ towel stopped it’s flapping and Derek’s eyes widened with realization of what he’d just said. “I mean, you’re fine. Or, not _fine_ , but--” He knew he should have just read off his phone. No matter how awkward it would have been, it would have been better than this trainwreck.

He nearly apologized again, for the hundredth time, for being unable to properly apologize in the first place, but Stiles laughed, a warm, breathy sound the towel over his head couldn’t quite smother. 

“I get it. Thanks. I appreciate that.” Stiles whipped the towel off, spinning it in a circle before slapping it down on the bench. It made a cracking sound that he seemed surprised at, then there was no sound except the dripping showerhead. He laughed again, awkward and hysterical this time, and rubbed a hand through his spiky, clumped hair. “I probably overreacted. Scott’s always trying to get me to work out with him, but I gave that up when he started benchpressing more than my body weight.” 

“That’s not so tough.” It popped out of Derek’s mouth so quickly, he didn’t have a chance to think, _Hmm, maybe it isn’t a good idea to completely undo the apology you just made._

“Oh no?” Instead of shutting down like he had last time, Stiles just cocked his head and crossed his arms across his thin chest, his eyes sparking with sharp amusement. 

Relieved, Derek took a chance: “No. What are you, a buck fifty soaking wet? I bet I could get you lifting that much in no time.” 

“Oh, yeah? That’s quite a sales pitch. Does insulting potential clients make you a lot of money?” 

“You’d be surprised. Some people are into that sort of thing. I don’t judge.”

Stiles’ bright, spontaneous laughter bounced on the tiles and hummed nicely in Derek’s ears. “I bet you don’t.” 

Derek wanted to make him laugh even more. In the space of five minutes, Stiles had already laughed three times, and each of them had been so different from each other that Derek wanted desperately to find out how many iterations there could be of one sound. Giggles, snickers, chuckles...he wanted them all, and wanted to find the foolproof ways to make them appear. He wanted to be the reason they happened. 

This realization came with an odd swoop of conflicting emotions. He felt a bit giddy from the force of his little crush. He’d opened that door by an inch, and already felt so much. He could see the potential of so much more, if he’d open the door slightly wider. But then, there was fear. He had a hard enough time with everyday social cues. Romantic relationships were so much more difficult. He also felt some discomfort with the fact that almost all of their interaction thus far had been laced with animosity. They amused each other, certainly, but that still didn’t stop Derek from being annoyed every time Stiles snuck in, or Stiles from being pissed off every time he had to battle with Derek to get past. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with these beginnings of warm fuzzy feelings.

“Well,” Stiles said when that delighted laughter faded away. “As enlightening as this has been, do you think you could, um, leave? I’m getting cold.”

That was evident, from the goosebumps that rose visibly on Stiles’ skin, and the hard buds of his nipples that Derek absolutely did not stare at. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Let me know if you want to bench press your own body weight sometime.” 

Abandoning his grip on the knotted towel, Stiles flexed with great showmanship, twisting his knees so he could show his skinny self in profile. “Sure. With these guns, it should be easy-peasy.” 

Derek took a single step in the direction of the door, but but was as far as he got. Stiles flexed so hard with his whole body that his bare foot slipped on the wet tile floor and his arms pinwheeled like a cartoon, trying to get his equilibrium back. With reflexes still honed from preventing wet willies from his sisters, Derek darted forward, catching Stiles around the waist just before he fell. For all their talk about Stiles’ meager weight, it was enough that it put Derek off balance too, and they both stumbled a few steps back into the counter. 

The towel had, miraculously, stayed in place the whole time, but the rest of Stiles was conspicuously bare, and Derek could feel the dampness left on his skin sinking into the cotton of his work clothes. It felt wrong, somehow, that Stiles was so naked and Derek so clothed, in his usual armour of sweater, T-shirt, joggers and boxers. That disparity was what made Derek freeze instead of reeling back quickly and apologizing. (Again.) 

They’d never been this close to each other. Frankly, Derek hadn’t been this close to anyone in months, but he didn’t think that was why Stiles didn’t pull away either. Stiles didn’t squirm out of Derek’s grasp, laughing off the awkward moment with a firm grip on the knot of the towel because he was caught in the same trance as Derek. The world--the dripping tap, the fan blowing cool air, the squeak of Derek’s soles--shrank away from the sweltering heat that drew them both in like icy hands to a lantern.

Neither of them started the kiss. The space between them simply was there one moment, and gone the next, and then they were attached at the mouth as well as the chest and hips. The arms Derek had wrapped around Stiles’ waist to catch him tightened as the kiss deepened, and Stiles’ hands came up to Derek’s jaw. The cool points of his fingers against the hollow under his ear wrung a helpless noise out of Derek and he surged forward so Stiles’ spine was arched over the hard counter, as off-balance physically as Derek felt inside.

Stiles pushed back, taking charge with a sharp nip and the slide of a hot, peppermint-flavoured tongue. Stiles must have brushed his teeth recently, Derek thought absently, surprised that he still had the brainpower to think of something so trivial when when Stiles’ lips were on his, sucking and dragging until he felt like they’d fall off. 

The kiss didn’t stop until a loud burst of laughter came from outside the door. The welcome desk, or the men’s change room, maybe, but it sounded like it was just feet away. They both turned to look, and Derek was abruptly aware that even if they pulled apart in time, there would be no hiding what they’d been doing if someone had actually wanted to come in. Not with Derek’s messed up hair and Stiles’ lips wet and beestung. 

The rationality that had flown out the window as soon as Derek had gotten into Stiles’ space flooded back in, and the blood Derek still had in his face drained away. In the mirror above the sink beside where Stiles stood--just as dumbstruck as Derek--he could see how pallid his face was. This had been a mistake. Stiles wasn’t a member, but he was as good as, still technically on his “trial period,” and if Stiles felt like he was pressured into what they’d done, he could get Derek fired. And that wasn’t even factoring in the fact that Derek was on the clock, wasting paid time making out with a virtual stranger. 

“I--I’m sorry,” Derek said, backing up and almost tripping over the long bench behind him. Apologizing again. He was always apologizing to Stiles for something these days. Stiles nodded, a blank stunned expression on his normally eloquent face. “I should go.” 

“Yeah, probably.” Stiles’ voice cracked like a pubescent boy’s, and he cleared his throat, shaking himself out of his daze and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “I need to, um. Get dressed.” 

Derek nodded, and stumbled away, away from the squirming feeling in his chest when he thought of how vulnerable Stiles had been in the shower, and how panicked his eyes had been the instant before Derek had turned around. 

He didn’t go to the welcome desk, even though he could hear Erica chopping away in the tiny kitchen and there was bound to be some last minute traffic before they closed. Instead, he hid in another part of the gym, berating himself for being a coward and hating himself for indulging in a kiss that never should have happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: Stiles is in a towel, and Derek is fully clothed. They kiss. When they stop, they’re both awkward about it, and Derek feels guilty, like he’d forced Stiles into something, even though there was no indication that Stiles wasn’t a willing participant. Stiles’ POV picks up here in the next chapter, so we get his reaction to the kiss!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Stiles' POV! Glad you made it!

Stiles didn’t think he’d ever shaved so fast. He probably missed a patch or two, but it wasn’t his biggest problem right now. It wasn’t like a couple of escaped hairs would bloom into an unkempt forest before he got around to using a razor again. 

Whether that would be as soon as he hoped, he wasn’t sure. 

He had a good thing going. As adamant as Derek was that Stiles not sneak in, he was doing a remarkably poor job at keeping him out. Derek couldn’t watch the entrance like a hawk all the time, so Stiles just loitered around the mall for a few minutes until he could dash in and out pretty easily. Most times, he even chose a moment when Derek was close enough to see him, because he figured Derek needed a little spicing up in his workday.  
But now...things might be different. 

_What the hell was that?_ Stiles thought as he stuffed his collection of toiletries back into his backpack after the quick, but thorough use of the mirror and sink. He knew what it was, of course. Derek had kissed him. Derek. Had kissed him. Kissed _him_. Well, that wasn’t totally accurate. Stiles hadn’t exactly stood there and let it happen. They’d kissed each other, with Stiles’ full participation, as stupid and ill-advised as it was.

“Shit.” He let the backpack tip over on the shower room’s bench, then fall to the ground, the thunk and clatter echoing in the empty room. He reached up and grabbed two handfuls of his hair, but that only reminded him how long it was getting, compared to how short it normally was. The last time he’d buzzed it off was with Scott’s ancient electric razor when they lived together, and he really needed to do it again, but he could never think of a good enough excuse for why he couldn’t just walk into a cheap barber’s place instead of trying to make Scott’s work with the power of will and prayer. 

_I’m allergic to barbicide now? I don’t trust anyone with my precious, precious follicles? I want to carve obscenities into the sides, and I want to make sure they’re spelled right?_

Stiles twisted his fingers, the dampness left in his dandelion fluff bringing him back to the present. Derek had looked just as shocked as Stiles had felt before he’d left, but Stiles couldn’t tell what emotion Derek would be feeling after that shock faded. For Stiles, it was giving way to more shock, more surprise and a healthy dose of panic. For Derek, it might be anywhere on the spectrum, from the hope for more where that came from to total disgust that he’d made out with his mortal enemy. Either side of the coin could mean trouble for Stiles.

He blew out the air he was holding in and released his grip on his hair, finger-combing it back into place as best he could. It was still spiky and fluffy, but he didn’t care much. (If he needed to look decent, he had a half-full travel sized bottle of cheap gel somewhere deep in the bowels of his backpack, but he wouldn’t waste it until he had to.) There was nothing keeping him there any longer. Unfortunately. 

He shrugged on the heavy backpack, shifting his shoulders to relieve the persistent ache that carrying the monster around caused. He took a deep breath, staring at the door like he could gain X-ray vision if he just stared long enough. There was a distinct possibility that Derek was on the other side of it, manning the front desk with the stoic dedication he always seemed to show, no matter what time of day it was, or how busy the gym seemed to be. 

If Stiles was the praying type, he would have sent one up right then and there, pleading with whoever it was listening to steer Derek away long enough that Stiles could make his escape. Of course Stiles knew they’d have to talk about it at some point. It had been too much of a thing to just sweep under the shower tile. Neither of them had the wits to laugh it off the moment the kiss was over, tossing it off with a pithy comment about their Harry/Draco vibe. Nope, instead, they’d both turned into awkward teenagers who didn’t know where to put their hands during the last dance on prom night. 

Thinking about leaving wasn’t actually leaving, he reminded himself. Hitching the backpack needlessly one more time, he took a few steps toward the door, then stumbled back gracelessly when it opened before he could get a hand on it. The guy on the other side didn’t seem to notice how rattled he was. He just nodded and pushed past him to the shower stalls. 

“Hey, Stiles.”

“Hi, Mick,” Stiles greeted weakly, far from his normal energetic self. “Bye, Mick.” 

He shot out the door, single-mindedly speed-walking to the exit, barely sparing a glance for the front desk, the place Derek always seemed to be. He nearly fell over with relief when he saw the desk was unmanned. He didn’t slow down, just in case Derek decided to come back, and he was out the door and through the mall to the outside in a few short minutes. The farther away from the gym he got, the easier he breathed, but it didn’t mean he’d forgotten about the incident. It was just easier to toss it on the growing pile of things he already had to worry about.

He walked for about 15 minutes, dodging other pedestrians and attempting not to brain anyone with his backpack. He loved walking through the city. It was so completely different from what he’d known back in Beacon Hills, with its grimy sidewalks, masses of people and bright, buzzing energy. In his first week there, he’d told Scott that he could walk for days in New York City and never be bored a single moment. 

Good thing, too, since that’s what he ended up doing. Walking was basically his full-time occupation, these days. That, and sitting. On benches, in parks, on the occasional sidewalk, if it wasn’t too disgusting. He had his favourite spots, including the one he was headed to now. The tiny patch of green grass materialized even as he thought of it. 

His regular hangout was a bank of three surprisingly comfortable benches, with a view of the street, instead of a wide open space or a playground. Stiles had learned pretty quickly that when a person started hanging around parks for a long time, being anywhere near kids--or, more accurately, being within spotting distance of their parents--was a bad idea. 

He picked the one in the middle this time, and he had his knees curled up to his chest, bracing his sketch pad in no time. Once he was there, it was easy to let his mind go blank with the strokes of his pen gliding over the page. He let the ink take shape how it wanted to, and it seemed to want to form a face. Not of anyone he knew, or recognized. Just an amalgamation of features he thought looked interesting together. He’d been filling sketchbooks with faces and figures since he could hold a crayon properly, so it wasn’t too difficult to create something without a model. 

It was pure coincidence that the drawing turned into a man with a strong, stubbled jaw, intense, light-coloured eyes and cheekbones so sharp the doctor could have cut the umbilical cord on them when he was born. 

Stiles sighed and covered the drawing of Derek with his hand, starting a new one in another corner of the page. This time, he sketched Derek’s dark eyebrows and pointed nose with intention. He was good with faces. He remembered every detail of Derek’s, even though he was usually running past him instead of having deep, face-to-face conversation with lots of eye contact. He also made sure to sketch Derek with his lips hitched into a smirk, an expression Stiles had only ever seen a couple times. He’d seen it today, when he and Derek had joked about Stiles’ lack of muscle and weird, vague references to sexual practices Stiles definitely wasn’t judging. 

Stiles liked that smile way more than the stoic determination Derek had shown when he was apologizing, or the confused, hurt frown from when Stiles had lost his shit over an insignificant comment about his dwindling weight, a sore subject he worried about every day. It wasn’t Derek’s fault Stiles was eating way less than he used to. That was no one’s fault, except whichever human personification of fate someone wanted to choose. Not Stiles, though. Fate was a bogus concept. He was where he was, who he was, not because of some cosmic interference, but because of sheer dumb luck. 

When Stiles came to New York City, he had about three months rent saved up from working at a factory for a few months after graduation, a suitcase full of his most prized possessions, and a job offer from Gorgon Comics, a tiny publishing house that was just starting out. Stiles was over the moon with excitement. Art school had been hard, and he’d been prepared to have to live in his dad’s house worrying about being a burden for a few more months at least.

His dad worried about him moving to the other side of the country where he had no family or support network. When Scott decided to go with him, it put a few of the Sheriff’s worries at ease, but he still didn’t trust the company, even though the people who hired him had seemed completely normal, and the company’s website looked professional and legit. It all seemed too good to be true, he said. Stiles tried not to be hurt, but he was, a little bit. He was talented. He had good ideas, a solid portfolio, and enough enthusiasm over an interview on Skype to land a job as a junior colourist. He deserved the job, and would have a successful career. It wasn’t a pipe dream. It was attainable, if he worked hard and networked, and all those American Dream cliches. He was going to prove his dad wrong.

When he and Scott got there, (and Stiles beyond thrilled that his best friend was joining him on his journey into the world of Adulting) the job was everything he thought it would be. He loved doing what he went to school for, his co-workers were all hip New Yorkers, and it paid enough for him to afford a tiny apartment with Scott that wasn’t much, but suited them fine. He got to wear his graphic tees and worn jeans to the office. It was hard work, with occasional long hours, since colouring was usually the last step, and they had to pick up the slack if an author missed a deadline. Starting the job right before Christmas and not having the cash or the vacation days to go home for the holidays was difficult, but it was all worth it when he thought about how he could work his way up to actually having his own art published by the company some day. 

He had eight whole months of bliss. Then, the company went bankrupt. The owners didn’t even tell the employees, they just picked up and left one day, and the bank put a foreclosure sign on the door and changed the locks. Stiles didn’t even get a chance to go inside and collect his favourite mug. He was just thankful he always carried his supplies with him, or he would’ve had to break in to get his pack of hundreds of dollars worth of equipment.

That day, he’d wandered back home in a daze, his brain frozen on one thought: His dad was right. The company hadn’t been legit enough to make it out of their second year, and Stiles, chump that he was, was left out of a job because he’d leapt at the first opportunity available to him. 

When he got home that day, Scott was pacing angrily and brandishing a notice from their landlord, telling them they had one month to move out because he was selling the building. When Stiles had gotten him calmed down, and thinking clearer, Scott asked him, brother to brother, if he would be okay on his own. Scott wanted to move in with Allison, the amazing girl he’d met during their first week in the city--in a coffee shop, like a movie meet cute. 

Stiles had looked into his best friend’s earnest eyes, and for the first time in his life, felt jealousy over Scott’s perfect rom com life. 

Scott had figured out in junior year that exercise actually made his asthma better, rather than worse. He discovered how much he loved working out, left his dweeby inhaler and lack of social status behind, but he never forgot about Stiles. He’d made sure Stiles was invited to every party and included at every lunch table, and Stiles had been grateful. He’d never been jealous of his friend, because he’d benefited every step of the way from Scott’s new life.

When Stiles went to art school, Scott took a two year course to be a personal trainer and was doing great at it. He’d gotten a job right away, and already had savings built from the two years Stiles was still slaving away in libraries and student studios, and to him, New York had been just a fun change of scenery, instead of one shot at glory, like it was for Stiles. But Stiles had been glad to have him, someone to lean on when the crush of the big city and the longing for home felt too overwhelming.

So, when he finally asked if he could leave him behind after all those years of Stiles hanging on his coattails and living vicariously through him, Stiles couldn’t tell him that, no, he wouldn’t be alright. He was out of a job, close to being out of money, and soon to be out of a home, and he didn’t have a single other friend in one of the most populous cities in the world, because he’d never seen the need to have any. He was failing in every aspect of his life, while Scott’s future looked brighter everyday.

Instead, Stiles told him _sure_. He’d be fine. Gorgon Comics didn’t pay him much, but he could find a hovel to call his own, right? He didn’t tell him that Gorgon Comics wasn’t paying him anything anymore. He just went to coffee shops during his normal hours during the last month of living at their apartment and looked for other jobs. He went to interview after interview in his one nice outfit. He lowered his standards to anything related to the art world. The reception desk at a fancy gallery, the counter at a high end supply store, the shelves of the library of an arts college. Nothing. 

He was getting closer and closer to applying at McDonald’s just to have some income. But every time the thought entered his head, he shrank back from it. A part of hm knew, deep down, that the day he gave in, it was all over. There was no going back to the dubious career of graphic novel artist once he got a job that paid the bills and kept a roof over his head. He’d get used to the luxury that came with the promotions and the pay raises, and his art would get shoved to the corner as a side project, then a hobby, then a thing he used to do a million years ago. 

Moving day marched closer and closer, and Stiles had no luck. Later, he’d acknowledge that he was in a state of denial for the last two weeks, where he was sure something magical would happen, and everything would be okay. Some comic book mogul would come out of the woodwork and see his stuff, offer him boatloads of money and the spare room in his penthouse apartment. His dad would be proud, Scott would never know how bad it had been, and Stiles’ life would be like the direct to DVD sequel to Scott’s story, the one that became a cult classic because it was grittier and more introspective than the original.

That didn’t happen. Instead, he pasted a smile on his face as he helped Scott move his things to Allison’s place, and asked if he could store his own crap in their closet while he got his own place sorted. They didn’t have much stuff to begin with, since the place was furnished and they’d left the majority of their belongings--books, movies, video games--back in Beacon Hills. Stiles didn’t even have a laptop, since he did everything on his tablet, and could always borrow Scott’s if he needed one.

Stiles painted a mental picture for Scott of a postage stamp-sized apartment, probably not even big enough to be completely legal, and enough of a dump that he’d never be comfortable having guests over. He said just enough to satisfy Scott’s curiosity, but not enough to make it feel fake. Even though it was. In reality, he had nowhere to go. He stayed in their old apartment for two nights by himself, aware of the clock counting down. 

The day the landlord came to tell him to clear out, he packed a couple shirts, two pairs of jeans, as many socks as he could wear with his comfiest shoes still fitting on his feet. The essentials. Everything else, he asked Scott to keep for him, until he was “sure no one would break in and rob him blind,” he’d said, with flippancy he didn’t feel.

He spent the day in the library, feeling blank and pale, and felt the world as he knew it crumble as he finally typed into google, “how to be homeless.” There were a lot of blog posts on how to prevent homelessness, and about how there were options, but most of those relied on having to go on welfare or unemployment, and Stiles wanted to avoid that at all costs. He didn’t have a mailing address in NYC any more. All he had was Scott’s for emergencies, and his dad’s place for important things he needed to file. If there was even a remote chance that either of them might open up a letter that made it clear he was taking handouts instead of working at his dream job, he would curl up and die in shame. 

Besides which, it wouldn’t be for long. It was a temporary solution to a problem he was working on fixing as soon as possible. He was papering the town with his resume, applying for anything that was even remotely close to his career path. The problem was, there were so few entry level positions. Everything he thought he was qualified to do wanted four or five years experience, on top of his degree. Another strike against him was that he had basically nothing in his resume. His dad hadn’t wanted him to work in high school, since he thought it would interfere with his studies. He was probably right. Then, he’d spent his breaks getting a hard start on his pre-req classes, so he could graduate a year early, instead of taking summer internships or something. Sure, it would have been nice to have a little spending money, but his scholarship had covered all the necessities, and if he’d let his marks drop, he would have lost it. He’d thought that getting into the workforce as soon as possible would be better than working some completely unrelated job in Beacon Hills for the summer. He’d been wrong. The factory job that allowed him to make the money to move to NYC was basically the only thing he had to go on, and there was only so much he could bullshit about it being related to the art world when all he did was watch car parts go by on a belt and fold cardboard boxes. 

He spent hours researching that day, then, when he couldn’t deny what was happening anymore, he looked up the address of the nearest shelter, and spent his first night there, clinging to his overstuffed backpack. 

That had been at the start of July. It was September now, and Stiles was getting tired. He was tired of looking for jobs to apply to that he knew he’d never get in a million years, tired of spending his waking hours just looking for a place to be for a while, tired of having to sneak into his best friend’s workplace just to look presentable. 

Something had to give. He’d find something soon, or else, some cosmic sign would beam down from the heavens and tell him to give up and get a real job that would pay the bills. It would probably look like a Starbucks logo. 

Until then, he had to keep doing what he was doing: Using the computers at the library to try and resurrect his sorry life, drawing in his copious spare time, until he thought his hand would fall off,and getting his dose of social interaction from Scott and from the guy he was pretty sure wanted to hatefuck with him in the supply closet of the gym.

Stiles looked down at the completed sketch of Derek’s face and scrawled a lazy signature on the bottom of the page. There was still lots of room on it for another few small drawings, but he wanted to put his stamp on it right away, marking it finished so he could tuck it away in his brain for another day. He had to get to the shelter if he wanted a bed that night, and the walk through the city was always more fun if he wasn’t tearing himself up about something. Those days were few and far between. 

***

Stiles decided to go back to the gym the next afternoon. Usually, he left a day in between visits, so Derek didn’t blow a gasket, but he figured this problem--the Kiss Problem--was one that should be solved quickly. For once, this was an issue he could fix, or at least deal with sufficiently so that he could cross it off the list of things taking up space in his head. All his other problems--what he’d do if he really couldn’t find a job, or he ran out of money, or his dad or Scott found out what he was doing--he didn’t have an immediate solution for, even though he’d been working on them for months, so it ought to be pretty satisfying. He hoped. 

All he had to do was be honest, he told himself. Not too honest, though. He couldn’t say “Sorry, I can’t be in a relationship right now because I’m still working on my basic human needs, like food and shelter.” But he could tell Derek he was really into his career right now, because that wasn’t a lie. He really was into finding someone who would give him a job that was even remotely related to a Bachelor of Fine Arts. (With a minor in illustration.) 

He wasted time at the library going through the classifieds while he waited for the gym to empty out for the afternoon slump. When he’d exhausted that option, he played solitaire on the ancient computer until he could see the cards on the back of his eyelids when he closed them. 

When he’d first been kicked out of his place, he hadn’t counted on how bored he’d get.  
There were only so many hours a person could spend applying for jobs that didn’t exist. Half the time, he felt like he was in a state of constant vigilance, but after he’d given out as many resumes as he could print with the change he had in his pockets and found a place where no one would bother him, or get him in trouble for loitering, the fight or flight instinct faded and he was just...bored. So he spent a lot of time walking to landmarks and taking grainy pictures for his dad. Last week, he’d actually accepted an invitation to come to a service at one of the churches that did community meals. It was awkward, and he was far from converted, but at least it had been something to keep him busy. He spent a lot of time drawing. A _lot_ of time. He hadn’t gotten so much practice at just freehanding whatever he wanted since he was in seventh grade and Scott had to go and live with his dad in Arizona for half a year. 

He still had half a sketchbook left. He wasn’t conserving the pages on purpose, though he used every inch. Every once in a while, he skimmed his thumb across the edges of the blank pages, wondering how long it would take him to fill them up, and whether he’ll have found a job by then. He _will_ , he always assured himself. Any day now, he’d bully his way in to see a manager of some art gallery, and they’d hire him on the spot. Problem solved. All he had to do was manage to look presentable at his new job for a few weeks until he had enough money for first and last month's rent. Then he could put this whole shitty experience behind him. It’d be a hell of a story for the grandkids. Or maybe not. He might never tell a single soul how well acquainted he became with the shelter system of New York City in the mid 2010s. 

The clock on the wall was a couple minutes fast, but it was accurate enough to tell him he was probably good to go to the gym. Get Fit! was about a 20 minute easy walk from his favourite library, on a nice day when the weather wasn’t bad. On a bad day, he could make it in 10. Today happened to be a good one, so he took his time. 

The only not-so-great part about the walk to the gym was the very last bit. It was located on the upper level of one of those shopping centres that are also super swanky residences, so all the stores in the mini-mall were more posh than the average Hot Topic. There was an orthopedic shoe store that sold brands he’d never heard of, a clothing boutique that never had signs for sales, and about three jewellers. Even the coffee shop wasn’t part of a franchise. There was nothing wrong with any of these stores, or the people who shopped at them, but whenever Stiles walked past them, no matter how clean or put-together he was, he felt like a grubby mess of a human being. He felt eyes on his back that were probably imaginary, but that didn’t make them any less traumatizing. 

So he kept his eyes to the ground when he barrelled through, and was always relieved to get on the escalator for the gym level. Sometimes, that relief was short-lived, because Derek was at the desk, waiting like a guard dog to pounce on poor defenseless Stiles. But sometimes, like today, someone else would be holding down the fort at the entrance, and he could relax a bit. 

“Hey, Erica.”

“Hey, Stiles.” She looked up from braiding the ends of her hair together. “Back again so soon? You better watch out, Derek’s going to expire from horror if you start showing up every day.” 

“Nah, he doesn’t have to worry. This is a special occasion. Is he around, actually?” Stiles tried to inject as much nonchalance in his question as possible, but he didn’t think he succeeded. 

Erica’s fingers paused, and she let the braid fall, uncrossing her eyes and narrowing them. “Ye-es.” She drew the word out. “He’s finishing up with a client. Why?” 

_Oh, you know. I just want him to know that illicit boning on the pile of extra yoga mats isn’t on the table._ “Just want to talk to him, is all.”

“You’ve been doing a fair bit of _talking_ recently, for two people who are supposed to be sworn enemies.” 

Shit. He hadn’t thought anyone had noticed. “Hey, I never swore he was my enemy. I’m perfectly willing to wave a white flag, he’s the one who has a problem.” 

“I’m the one with the problem?” 

Both Erica and Stiles jumped a bit when Derek’s voice came in from the right. Derek had appeared like the suspicious-looking guy in the first 45 minutes of a horror movie, prowling behind them while he waited for the opportunity to pounce into the conversation, instead of walking up to them and saying _Hey, guys, what are you talking about._ It was such a cliche, but Stiles was willing to bet that Derek hadn’t even done it on purpose. He might have thought they knew he was there, even though they were clearly talking about him, and not in a particularly flattering manner. (Although, Erica’s teasing had lost its bite since Stiles had read her a PSA on bullying in the workplace.) 

Or, he might have thought that scaring ten years off their lives was a perfectly acceptable way to enter the conversation. Derek was a bit of an alien, from what Stiles had seen. He looked like he’d walked out of the pages of GQ, but he was stiff in the way people were when they were way out of their depth, or translating the language in their head as they went. Stiles had witnessed--on more than one occasion--Derek waiting a full three seconds after a joke had been made to laugh. When it came, it was a nice laugh, not false or forced. It just took a while for Derek’s brain to compute, apparently. He was pretty good at appearing normal, if someone didn’t look closely. Stiles had seen him do the small talk thing with the members, and it was easy to miss that everything Derek did to complete those rituals was slightly...off. Like he knew how to perform them correctly, but he didn’t know why he had to.

It was kind of ridiculously endearing to Stiles. Even when he was yelling at Stiles, or trying to chase him away, Derek’s Creature from A Far Off Galaxy routine was really amusing. They annoyed the fuck out of each other, and Stiles had been legitimately--however irrationally--angry when Derek had bluntly pointed out the ribs that never used to be visible, even before his high school growth spurt. But even in the moment before Stiles stormed out of the shower, there was a flutter in his chest of _how absolutely adorable_ when Derek face had crimped into a confused puppy frown. 

Derek didn’t seem to really notice how much he’d rattled them. He continued, “The only problem I have is that the showers are--”

“For paying members only. Yeah, I’ve heard it.” Stiles waved his hand in a dismissive gesture he knew made Derek’s eye twitch. And there it went. Quality entertainment. “My point is that I’m ready to make peace at a moment’s notice.” 

Derek crossed his arms over his chest. (And what a chest it was. Derek filled out the Get Fit! branded jacket almost as well as Erica.) “The moment I start ignoring you sneaking past the desk?”

“Exactly!” 

Erica snorted, leaned back and propped her neon pink running shoes up on the desk. “Jesus, why don’t you two just fuck already? The tension is unbearable.” 

She was joking, of course. She said it like people said their calc teacher just needed to get laid, then maybe they wouldn’t grade so hard. It wasn’t actually something they thought would happen, and deep down, they didn’t think the outcome would really be what they wanted. But it hit close enough to the reason why Stiles was even more wired than usual (Adderall was one of the first expenses to go.) that it was a miracle Stiles thought quick enough to roll his eyes and stick his tongue out like the thought was repellant. Derek certainly didn’t do a great job throwing off suspicion. His face closed off into the blank mask he wore when he didn’t want to show anything else. 

(Stiles had seen this mask before. A particular incidence came to mind, one that involved an frighteningly hard-bodied older woman with a purple velour tracksuit and a burning desire for Derek to demonstrate proper form for lunges.)

“Ha. Ha,” Stiles said, for good measure. “You know what, Erica? That’s a fine idea. Come on, Derek. To the supply closet! We’ve got some sorting out of differences to do that can only be done partially clothed and grabby.” 

It was a testament to how shocked Derek was that he allowed Stiles to pull him along by the shoulder while Erica cackled in the background. He’d recovered by the time Stiles had closed the door firmly behind them, and he didn’t waste any time in letting Stiles know how he felt.

“What is your problem, Stiles? Do you want her to think that we...that we’re…” Derek trailed off, presumably from horror at the idea.

“Getting it on? No. That’s exactly why I said that. She’ll be so busy being amused by what was an obvious lie that she won’t think about the real reason we’re in here. At least not for a while.”

Derek fell silent. He didn’t say “oh,” in a disappointed way, realizing he’d said the wrong thing, but it hung unuttered in the stuffy air of the closet they were in. His normal demeanor of sullen awkwardness spiked all of a sudden. Stiles guessed they were both awkward. Outside at the desk, they’d fallen into their normal banter so easily that he’d forgotten why he was there. To have an awkward conversation. 

This was why Stiles had been so bad at casual dating, back when he was dating at all. When he’d first moved to New York, free from the boredom of his college town’s offerings and the oppression of his father’s deputies’ watchful eyes, he’d expected the pool of options to grow dramatically, but it turned out that bars and nightclubs in NYC, while they were new and exciting for a while, were just about the same as bars and nightclubs on the West Coast. And creeps on the internet were creepy wherever he roamed. It didn’t help that he was terrible at meeting people. If he actually did convince himself to put a toe into the water, he either rushed in too much, too soon, or went at a glacial pace. There was no in-between. 

But, regardless of how fast or slow he went, he couldn’t just string someone along, or kiss them without there being meaning behind it. If he kissed someone, it was usually because there was an intention for that someone to be the only person he’d be kissing for awhile. Or at the very least, the implication that he’d like to kiss them again, soon. Making out with a guy one time for the fun of it wasn’t his style. He was pretty sure it wasn’t Derek’s either, which was why he felt like they had to have this conversation at all. If Derek was a different kind of person--more like Erica, maybe--he might have just continued according to their standard operating procedure until he finally got a job and could use his own damn shower. 

“So, what’s the real reason you dragged me in here, then? Need to _borrow_ some of the cleaning supplies too?” Derek asked, peevishly, but his jibe lacked the passion he usually had. How anyone could be passionate about upholding the Holy Commandments of a run-of-the-mill gym, Stiles didn’t know. 

“No.” Stiles decided that while he could respond with some devastating quip, he needed to get right down to business. “I wanted to talk about what happened yesterday.” 

Derek didn’t try to play dumb or avoid the topic. He probably couldn’t have acted that innocent, even if he’d tried. Stiles was pretty sure Derek’s face had stopped looking innocent around age five. As soon as those eyebrows had reached their full potential, he must have looked like the Antichrist in OshKosh. 

“Yesterday,” Derek said. “Okay. Then, I’m sorry. Again.” 

Stiles blinked. Of all the things he’d been expecting to come out of Derek’s mouth, that hadn’t been one of them. He’d prepared for Derek to give him a fumbling but gentle let-down, or an unimpressed, resentful glare. Stiles had drawn up a rough script in his head for what he might say if Derek was actually interested in dating him. (Not that that was what he’d expected. It just didn’t hurt to be prepared.) He’d even planned for what might happen if the close quarters of the cupboard they were in prompted another spontaneous flaring of repressed sexual tension. But, a solemn, heartfelt apology? Not something he’d written a response for. 

“Buh?” He blurted. He realized how stupid that sounded and shook his head like an Etch-a-Sketch. “Sorry for what?” 

“For kissing you. It was inappropriate, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” 

Stiles didn’t say anything for a good few seconds. Instead, he watched Derek’s face for a flicker of sarcasm or teasing. He hadn’t had the opportunity to explore it much, but he was pretty sure Derek’s sense of humour, once it was brought out, was dry as one of 007’s nasty ass martinis. 

“Well, thanks, I guess,” he said, when no _gotcha_ seemed to be forthcoming. “But I think it was kind of a mutual thing. I wasn’t exactly pissed about it while it was happening. By your reasoning, I owe you an apology too. So, sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Derek said, almost before Stiles had finished speaking. “No problem.” 

Stiles smiled, more confidently than he felt. “Good.” 

“Yes.” 

“Fantastic.” 

Derek nodded. After that, they were back to the awkward silence again. Stiles cursed inwardly and shuffled his feet. He’d had a plan--plus a few backups--to make sure this kind of dead air didn’t happen. Trust Derek to throw everything off. Everything the guy did seemed to set Stiles off kilter. 

“So,” Stiles started, as casually as he knew how. (Not very casually. There were a lot of things Stiles was good at, but subtle conversation steering was not one of them) “Are we just pretending it didn’t happen, or…”

A crease appeared between Derek’s eyebrows. “It did happen.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Yeah, I know. But are we going to acknowledge that? Or just, you know. Forget the whole thing was ever a thing. Kiss? What kiss?”

“That seems kind of…”

“Stupid? Yeah, I thought so too. We’re smart enough to not have to play mind games with ourselves. Just thought I’d put it out there as an option. I once played seven minutes in heaven with a girl in her step-dad’s basement and the next week at school she seemed to genuinely not remember that I even lived in the same plane of reality as her. It was kind of impressive, really.”

Derek looked a little shell-shocked. “Wow.” 

“Yeah. Okay, no to pretending it didn’t happen.” 

“Definitely. So, if we aren’t doing that, what do we do instead?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Are there other options?” 

“Well, I mean.” Stiles cleared his throat, feeling the air get thicker with nerves. “We could either continue on as we’ve been going, or, um. We could do something about it. Those are the only two ways this could go, I think.”

“Oh.” Derek looked beyond Stiles’ head, like whatever was on the shelf behind him was fascinating. The light was pretty dim in the cupboard, but Stiles was pretty sure Derek’s skin was going ruddy. “So, which do you--”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, panicking at the direction the conversation was taking. “I really can’t start a relationship right now. It’s just really, really, ridiculously bad timing. Not to mention a little weird, considering how we know each other. I mean, you seem like a nice guy--”

“Seriously?” Derek’s head tilted down a fraction, and his eyebrow lifted just the tiniest bit, but both of the small movements were enough to change his expression from placid and blank to piercingly incredulous. “ _You_ think I’m a _nice guy_.”

All of the nervous placations building up behind Stiles’ teeth skittered away. “Well. When you put it like that, not really. But neither am I, to be honest. So I get it.” 

Derek nodded slowly and shifted his weight on his black rubber and mesh--probably obscenely expensive--running shoes. “And I get what you’re saying. It’s fine. It was a mistake, and it won’t happen again.” 

“Right. Exactly.” Definitely a mistake, Stiles assured himself. That was what he’d come there for, to make sure Derek knew that they were totally not a thing. Maybe it stung a little bit to hear someone else say it so calmly, but it was still for the best. 

“So, can I go back to work now?”

“Oh! Yeah, sure. Sorry.” Stiles moved to the side so that Derek could reach for the doorknob, but even with his backpack pressed up against the shelf, it was a tight squeeze for Derek to get by. It was kinda stupid...If Stiles wasn’t so rattled, he would have just opened the door himself, and they would have avoided the two long seconds they spent with their chests inches away from each other. But there was no going back once it happened, and Stiles had to deal with the fallout of time slowing down to a crawl while he took in every little detail of Derek that would have been fascinating to him, if the time had been right for them. Derek’s breath smelled like mint, but sweet, like it wasn’t gum that he’d put in his mouth but candy. He also smelled like laundry soap and some generic Dad deodorant, instead of sweat from working out with a member or noxious body spray. It was nice. 

Derek’s shoulders were pressed down and back, in the rigid, almost military bearing they usually fell into, which was a marked difference from five minutes previous, before they’d sorted out their shit. Stiles hadn’t noticed how tense Derek had been, but now that most of the tension was gone, the relief in the line of Derek’s shoulders was obvious. 

Stiles was just as relieved, but for a millisecond when their eyes met, then jumped away from each other, he was pretty sure he saw the same miniscule smudge of disappointment that the conversation hadn’t gone differently.

“Derek, your 11 o'clock is here early,” Erica said, when they emerged, blinking in the brighter fluorescent light. “She said there was no rush, but I told her I’d let you know when you were finished with your quickie.” 

Derek rolled his eyes, and grabbed something from behind the welcome desk. A tablet. Dang, this gym was fancy. “You did not.” 

“No, I didn’t. You should thank me, though. If I’d told her you were locked in a closet with a hot guy and lots of towels, I would have been telling the truth.” Stiles snorted, and Erica leaned on the counter, grinning conspiratorially. “You going to tell me what you were really doing in there?”

In the corner of his eye, Derek froze, but Stiles was already doing damage control with the avoidance tactics he’d perfected after two months of convincing his family and friends that he had a job and a roof over his head. “Can’t. Top secret. Agent H and I would have to kill you.” 

Erica looked more amused by the excuse than pissed off at the obvious lie, which was Stiles’ diabolical plan all along. Worked every time. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” 

“Certainly is.” Derek broke in, tucking a pen and one of those little touchscreen styluses into the pocket of his jacket. “We’ve already said too much. And Agent S was just leaving.”

“Yeah, about that.” Stiles started backing away, slowly enough that he hoped Derek couldn’t be sure where he was headed until it was too late. “I think there’s some intel I still have to collect. In here.” He abandoned all pretense and ducked into the showers. “I’ll report back with my findings,” he said, just as the door closed. 

Through the heavy wood, he heard Erica’s laughter and Derek’s aggrieved, “Stiles!” 

_Yeah _, Stiles thought. They were right back to normal.__


	6. Chapter 6

Scott was a hard worker. Stiles had known this about him since they were in school, and he’d seen Scott battle his way through working part time and studying for tests that just didn’t mesh with his learning style. Scott was a hands-on kind of guy. He didn’t absorb much by reading, like Stiles did. It had taken a lot of frustration and late night, Red Bull fueled study sessions to figure out Scott learned best by walking around his room having Stiles read things out loud to him and throwing tennis balls at him at random intervals. It did something to his brain that mere repetition could never do. Melissa hadn’t understood it at all, but she hadn’t complained, because it got Scott’s marks up high enough to get him into a good college program. 

So, yes, Stiles knew what a good worker Scott was, and the kind of hours he put in. He was proud of his friend, and even though the structure of their brotherly relationship was normally close to a twin thing, there were certain things that made Stiles look up to him, his work ethic included. The only time he wished Scott didn’t pull up his bootstraps so hard, or volunteer for so many hours of overtime was when the days went by way too quickly and they realized they hadn’t seen each other--besides short glimpses at the gym-- in a week and half. And that might not have seemed like a particularly long time to most people, but to them? It was an eternity.

“Bro!” Stiles said as soon as the chain came off Scott’s door.

“Bro!” Scott pulled him through for a bone-crushing hug. “How are ya, buddy?” 

“Dear one! Beloved! I’m well. You?” Stiles winked at Allison over Scott’s shoulder, and she rolled her eyes, smiling. She was used to them by now.

“Great! Work’s been crazy, but I’m happy to see you.” 

“Work is always crazy with you.” It was a comforting constant. Scott was still spending his time earning money, Stiles was still a fuck up with grand dreams of drawing pictures for a living. That was the less comforting part. “I thought I might see more of you if I was using your facilities, but you’re a free spirit. You blow in and out on the testosterone-scented wind and you’ll be pinned down by no man.”

Scott nodded. “Damn right. So, what’s the scoop on your hot water, anyway? Are they going to turn it back on any time soon?”

“I’m happy to report that the temperature has risen,” Stiles said, with a sunny smile. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Definitely. From arctic to frigid.” 

“Shit.” Scott’s expressive face fell. “You got my hopes up for a second.” 

Stiles slapped a hand over his heart. “Buddy. It’s like you don’t want me sneaking into your workplace every other day, pestering you and making your co-worker nervous.”

“Imagine that. I think everyone’s getting used to you, to be honest.”

Stiles let Scott’s chatter about his clients, co-workers and daily minutiae wash over him as they all sat on the ugly, but comfortable couch Allison had brought with her when the two of them moved in together. It almost--but not totally--matched with the equally ugly armchair Scott had purchased when he’d panicked about not having any furniture to contribute to the household. He’d also bought a TV stand, bookshelf and decorative wicker basket during the same trip to the thrift store, and he and Stiles had schlepped all of it back home on a blazing hot July afternoon. It had been awful, but Stiles still remembered it with a certain fondness. That had been back when he’d been sure that someone like him wouldn’t end up checking in at a shelter every night. 

“So, what have you been up to?” Scott asked, and Stiles tuned back into the conversation with a jolt. He adjusted his position on the couch and pulled at a stray thread in the cushion.

“Oh, you know. Same old. I didn’t get that promotion I was telling you about.” 

It hadn’t taken Stiles long to figure out that he couldn’t keep his secret by just lying by omission. The people in his life cared too much about him not to expect a certain level of detail. So, he created a few scenarios in his head, ones he could conceivably expect to happen if he’d still had the job. It was kind of nice, sometimes. For the duration of his lunches with Scott and Allison, or his phone calls with his dad or Lydia, it was like he was actually living the life he’d thought he’d have. It was a pretty good life. Not glamourous, by any means, or perfect every second, but it would have made him happy, if he really was living it. Doing a pared-down version of what he loved, making his own hours, biding his time until he could really spread his wings.

“Ah, that’s a shame.” 

“I wasn’t expecting to, to be honest. I haven’t been there long enough.” He shrugged and hoped he looked the right amount of resigned, but disappointed. 

“Almost a year, now. That’s nothing to sneeze at. ” 

He hummed noncommittally. “Well, in any case, I’m not mad about it. Listen to us, talking about promotions and salaries. When did we become so adult?”

Scott crossed his arms over his chest, but his eyes crinkled, so Stiles wasn’t fooled by his fake peevishness. “When you dragged me to New York with you, and I stopped having my mom do my taxes.” 

Stiles let out an outraged noise, and Allison laughed at his theatrical grimace. “Excuse me, but _dragged_? I don’t remember it like that at all. ‘Don’t leave me, bro! I couldn’t survive without you!’ Is what you actually said.” Scott laughed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “And don’t even lie. Moving here was the best thing to ever happen to you.” 

“Yeah. It was.” Scott took Allison’s hand and looked into her eyes. They shared an intense couple-y stare that was worthy of a Valentine’s Day jewellry commercial. Stiles looked away. It seemed like a private thing, even if they didn’t realize it, and he didn’t like the tug of jealousy he felt. Like someone had pulled a plug out of the bottom of his stomach. 

He gave them a good ten seconds to get the sickening cuteness out of their systems, then he clapped his hands together. “So, what are we eating?” 

Lunch was a beef and rice casserole thing he’d had a million times before at Melissa’s house (Though Scott never managed to make it quite as good as hers. It was still damn good, though.) and a huge salad with berries and nuts, something he would have taken a couple bites of to be polite, before. Now, he loaded up his plate with green things, and doused the whole thing with dressing. He figured he needed the calories. 

When the idea first sank in that he really wouldn’t have a place to stay, Stiles hadn’t considered how expensive and difficult it would be to be homeless. Since he didn’t have a fridge, he couldn’t buy things that spoiled quickly. Because he only had his backpack for storage, he couldn’t buy things in bulk while they were on sale. He was so sick of granola bars and meal replacement shakes, but it was hard to find anything else that he could rely on to keep him full until the next time he could get a meal at a local church. He’d splurged on a multi-vitamin so he wouldn’t get scurvy or spend too much time being ill, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to eat as many vegetables as he could get while the getting was good. His regular meals at Scott and Allison’s were a great place to do that. He’d crammed so much broccoli in his mouth the first time they’d cooked for him that he’d had to make up a story for Scott that he was trying to eat as healthy as his dad.

It was a nice meal. Good food, great conversation. Hanging out with Scott was always easy, and the addition of Allison had only given them another person to try tired jokes on. She hadn’t interrupted the rhythm of their friendship at all. It was one of the reasons Stiles was so disappointed in himself for the tiny twinges of resentment over Scott’s picture perfect life that he couldn’t keep out of his head. He thought it might have been easier if she was some awful harpy who got between his and Scott’s co-dependency, but she couldn’t be further from that.

“Man, you’re gonna have to roll me out of here,” he said, and pushed away his empty plate. “You guys are too good to me.” 

“It’s nothing, bro,” Scott said as he grabbed the empty salad bowl and started clearing it to the kitchen. “You can return the favour when you’ve got a kitchen you don’t share with your pet cockroaches.”

“Hey, Bill and Billy aren’t pets. They’re tenants. Who I can’t seem to evict. But you’re right. I’ll get you back as soon as I feel safe inviting you to my neighbourhood.” 

Scott pursed his lips at him from the kitchen sink. “I still think you should borrow some money from your dad. I’m sure he’d help you top up the rent on a nicer place for a little while longer, until the promotion really does come through.” 

Stiles looked down at his finger, trailing it through a puddle of salad dressing that had spilled next to his plate. “I know he would, Scott. That’s not the point.”

Stiles was sure his dad would pay the whole shot, if he told him what was going on. For his one-way plane ticket back home, that was. He might not even say _I told you so_ when Stiles walked in the front door in Beacon Hills. Not out loud. But he’d say it in every purse of his lips, every flick of his eyes toward Stiles’ useless degree, nailed slightly crookedly on the wall next to his high school graduation portrait, the one he’d drawn himself instead of shelling out the money for a stiff, black-robed, library-backdropped monstrosity. 

Stiles didn’t have the stomach for it. He’d told himself when the whole thing started that he’d rather spend a thousand nights on the street than under his father’s sympathetic, rent-free roof, with blank applications for the grocery store up the street appearing on the kitchen table every few days. He was pretty sure that was still true. Though, it was getting harder to remember that when he sat at Allison’s mother’s heirloom dining table and ate their food, for free, week after week. 

What was worse, he always had to ask himself. Leeching off his friends who didn’t know the whole story, waiting for the day they finally said enough was enough? Or living on his dad’s charity with that disappointed parental pressure hanging over his head, because he _did_ know the story, and it didn’t fit the mold of the prodigal son. 

Stiles helped clear away the rest of the dishes, volunteering to wash up if they’d just keep him company. Of course, they both refused, just like they did every time he offered. They allowed him to help them dry, though, so that was at least something. 

“You were right, by the way, Stiles,” Scott said, scrubbing fiercely at a a dish. 

“Of course I was right. About what?” 

“Derek.” Scott gave up on the dish, and Allison took over with gusto, while Scott and Stiles wielded their towels on the wet plates. “I think he’s opening up. Things are going a lot better. I was sure we were going to be stuck with an odd man out on our team, but he’s been a lot more friendly since we started making the first move.” 

“Oh, yeah. That. Of course I was right. Not everyone makes friends as easily as you do.” Stiles was observant. It either came from all the staring he did when he was learning how to draw figures, or he came by it naturally by being a nosy fucker. Either way, he’d observed how Derek’s body language hadn’t been annoyed or angry. Just tense. Uncomfortable. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he just needed to be prodded a bit. He wouldn’t join the herd on his own, but if the herd came to him? He probably wouldn’t have an issue with it.

“Apparently. I was legitimately worried, though. Everyone else got along so well, and he always seemed so...distant. I thought that was how he wanted it, that he was one of those people who keeps work and social life separate at all costs. Yesterday, I thought he might come out for a drink with us after we closed. He didn’t, but he looked like he actually considered it for a minute. That’s huge.”

“Is it?” 

“Totally.” 

“Well, I think it’s great,” Allison said, finally giving up on the stubborn dish. Scott really needed to learn to grease his pans better before cooking. Melissa would be horrified.

“Me too,” Stiles said. “Maybe if we keep melting the Ice King’s frozen heart, he’ll quit giving me a hard time about the shower thing.” Scott rolled his eyes, but didn’t agree. Perhaps he was right for not holding out much hope. Derek seemed like he was the kind of guy who’d kept himself in time-out even when his mom said he could play, because the rules stated five whole minutes of standing with his nose to the wall. “Well, speaking of showers, I’m going to use yours, if you don’t mind.”

Scott waved him off. “Not at all.”

This had also become part of their routine, along with lunch and Allison refusing to let him wash the dishes. He used their shower instead of the one at the gym, and gave Derek’s baby ulcer a break. The water pressure of Scott’s little shower/bath combo wasn’t quite as good as at the gym, but the water got warmer. Stiles had to constantly remind himself to hurry it up, not to take his time like he would if Derek was outside tapping his toe. Here, he had a good reason not to use too much. He was enough of a freeloader without racking up a huge utility bill he couldn’t help pay for. 

When all the suds from his short hair washed down the drain, he got out and used the rattiest, most questionably-stained towel he could find in the linen cupboard to dry off quickly. He used Scott’s deodorant, because they’d been brothers for so long that it wasn’t weird. They used the same brand and everything. He had a travel-sized one in his backpack, but it would only last so long, so he used it as little as he could get away with.

He put on his clothes, grimacing at the concept of putting worn clothes on his squeaky clean body. It couldn’t be helped. He didn’t get the chance to wash them thoroughly as often as he’d like. When he was fully covered, he still had goosebumps prickling up his arms and tickling the back of his neck, because what came next in the routine was his least favourite part, guaranteed to ruin the good mood his friends had put him in and fill him with sick self-loathing. 

When he went over to Scott’s, he took things. Only one or two, and never anything expensive. One of the 20 pack of razors from the dollar store. One of Allison’s bajillion mini envelopes of kleenex. A few ziploc sandwich bags from the drawer in the kitchen. Like the stuff they gave out in the shelter, but an endless supply of it that he didn’t have to line up for, feeling the weight of his failure every step of the way. He hated that he stole from them, that he literally took things they’d paid for without paying a dime himself, but at the same time, acknowledged the necessity of it. It was only when he didn’t have it that he realized how much he needed a palmful of tylenol. 

Every time he came over, he sat in front of the bathroom cabinet--or the utility drawer, if Scott and Allison were busy and not looking--and spent a few minutes berating himself, looking into his backpack and convincing himself that he doesn’t need anything, that he was fine with what he had. But every week, he gave up, and chose his items carefully. Sometimes a spare toothbrush, out of the multi-pack of soft ones Scott had gotten, then wouldn’t use because he liked firm. Or four little squares of lemon-scented wipes. A couple benadryl for when his fall allergies flared up. 

Insignificant things, really. They’d never miss them. It didn’t keep him from feeling like a piece of shit. Neither did the fact that he knew, without a doubt, if he asked Scott--or Allison, for that matter--for things like these, they’d give it to him, no questions asked. But he couldn’t, because what if they _did_ ask questions, when they noticed the pattern of him asking for that kind of stuff every single week? He didn’t think he could come up with a plausible lie every time, and he wasn’t ready to admit how deep he’d dug himself into his lies. 

So he stuffed his pitiful, contemptible haul into the bottom of his backpack and zipped it up tight, then walked back into Scott and Allison’s cozy living room. He spent a couple more hours there, shooting the shit with Scott, getting to know and love Allison even more, and waiting for his guilt to give him away like a tell tale heart.

***

The walk to the shelter he’d been frequenting was long, but he couldn’t enjoy it like he normally could. Well, “normal” for the days he spent filling his hours by people-watching and learning the city. This endless trudge to his destination, where he looked longingly at every subway entrance he passed, was par for the course on Scott/Allison lunch days. He was always too busy feeling like a shitty friend and a horrible person to make up stories about the people he passed, or wonder how he’d turn their likeness into a two-dimensional caricature. 

The feeling would fade in time. He’d shake it off by morning, for a week or two until the next lunch and it would start all over again. He tried to stay positive these days, though god knew he didn’t have much to feel good about. But he’d seen what happened to people like him who gave up completely and stopped trying to pull themselves out. He hadn’t gone into this whole thing knowing that most of the people he saw in the shelter would only be there for a week or two. A month, maybe. A lot of them were like him: An average but unlikely person who managed to find themselves out of work, without the money saved up to keep paying rent. Once they found a new job, it didn’t take that long to get first and last, and they were out of there. There was a much smaller subset of people who didn’t--or couldn’t--hold any sort of hope for having a steady income. 

Those were the people who scared Stiles most, but not because he thought they were threatening or dangerous. He avoided looking at the older men who’d been in the shelter system for years, who fell into addiction to deal with the mind-numbing boredom that came hand in hand with the feeling of isolation, or to soothe some ache inside them that money or a bachelor apartment in Queens couldn’t fix. Stiles wasn’t them. He was applying for art-adjacent jobs every single day, trying to get himself out of his temporary situation. 

He wouldn’t be like them. Even though he sometimes thought he’d go out of his mind if he had to spend another hour in the same corner of the same library that he wouldn’t get kicked out of until closing time, staring at the crown-molded ceiling because he was too jittery and stressed out to consider reading or drawing. At those times, he’d finger the zipper on his little pouch of cash, and have a passing thought that he might feel better, more together, if he had something to take the edge off, like he and Scott used to do when they made it through finals and they just wanted their brains to slow down for _one second._

Those moments terrified him more than the empty, unfocused eyes of Roger or Call Me Tim. Every time even a whisper of something like that passed over his brain, he stuffed his thin wallet into the bottom of his bag and started walking, anywhere, everywhere, to get away from them. He usually ended up at the gym, where he knew Derek, or Scott, or even Erica would be waiting to give him a distraction. Just a couple of minutes of conversation--or verbal sparring--was enough to make him feel like a human again. He knew he wouldn’t do anything stupid--or more stupid than letting himself end up on the streets--as long as he could play back his fights with Derek in his head and imagine what he _could_ have said if he were quicker, and not slowed down by the perpetual fog of too little sleep and too much anxiety.

Stiles shook off the heavy load of the dark paths his brain took him down when he was feeling sorry for himself. The shelter came into view a few minutes later, and he checked in quickly, handing over his backpack to the lady running the lock-up, but keeping his phone tucked away. This was one of the shelters that actually had shower facilities, but he never used them if he could get away with it. Other places were more strict about people washing off before using the cots, but he was usually clean enough that he could wet his hair down and make it look like he’d showered, and he’d keep his clothes on. He’d aged out of qualifying for the LGBTQ shelters before he’d even come to the city, so he watched his back carefully, and kept it to the wall. He didn’t like stereotyping people who were in the shelter system as dangerous or violent, since he was there too, but he liked being vulnerable even less. So, no showers for him, except for in the comfort of Get Fit! or Scott’s place.

When the lights were off, and the place was mostly quiet, he took advantage of the fact that he’d scored a bed next to the wall to turn the brightness on his phone way down and text his dad. It was five o’clock in the afternoon on the west coast, but his dad was just getting into the station to start a shift, so they didn’t talk long, or about anything important. They did this a lot. Texted about nothing in particular, just checking in to see if they were each still alive. 

Stiles never let much time pass between talks, mostly because his dad still paid his phone bill, so he deserved to hear from him frequently. It’d been his early Christmas present before he’d left for New York last fall, instead of some material possession he probably wouldn’t take with him across the country anyway. Stiles felt a little guilty every time he used it. A part of him felt ridiculous using a brand new iPhone 6 when he couldn’t afford to splurge on a value menu cheeseburger from McDonalds. But he’d never part with it. He needed to have a reliable phone number to put on job applications, and to keep up his charade for the benefit of his dad and his best friend.

He used to find it difficult to sleep in the shelters. He’d lie awake for hours, lighting up his face in the glow of his hazardously expensive phone, listening to the snoring, the quiet talking, the occasional lighter flicking on to burn what was definitely _not_ tobacco or weed. But that was before the burden of his constant uncertainty started dragging him down toward sleep like a ball and chain wrapped around his ankle as he drowned.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally earn that rating...

Stiles spit out the straw he’d been alternating slurping from and munching on. “Hey, can I throw an extra shirt in there with that stuff?”

“Why?” Scott looked up questioningly from loading the washer with a bunch of white towels. White was a stupid colour to buy towels in, if anyone asked Stiles. From the amount of Oxiclean Scott had put into the little dispenser cup, it was an uphill battle to keep them from getting dingy and gross-looking. Towels, shirts, underwear...it didn’t matter much. It didn’t look good as long as something darker did. It was why both of Stiles’ two shirts that he carried around with him were the colour of charcoal, even though he’d sweat buckets in the heat of past summer. 

“Saves me from having to drag my ass to the laundromat for a couple more days,” Stiles said in answer to Scott’s question. “And you’re using it anyway.” 

Scott considered it for a few seconds, then shrugged. “Fine, I guess. As long as you’re planning on being around for another hour. It’s still gotta dry.” 

“No problem.” Stiles dug out the shirt from his backpack, which was next to him on the laundry room counter, and tossed it in the direction of Scott’s face, unsurprised when he caught it before it could make contact. “What, you trying to get rid of me? I’ve only been here five minutes.” 

“Never.” Scott placed his hand over his heart, staring up at Stiles from his knees, like a romance novel hero. “You know you’re one of my favourite distractions. It’s just that I have a client coming in 15, so I won’t be around for you to pester.” 

Stiles stopped swinging his feet like a kid on a too-high stool and gestured incredulously with his cup. “Pester? First of all, how dare you. Second of all, how dare you? I’m a delight.” Scott snorted as he pressed the Start Cycle button and stood up. “Unbelievable. But don’t worry about me, dude. I’m sure I’ll find other people to _pester_ while you’re earning your daily bread. Pester, _honestly_. Like you don’t count the minutes until I grace you with my presence.” 

Derek interrupted his tirade by poking his head around the door. “Scott, your 1:30 is waiting at--Oh. Stiles.”

Stiles spread his arms, nearly knocking over a sticky gallon jug of Tide. “In the flesh. No need to sound so excited about it.” 

“Well, shucks, Stiles.” If there was one type of communication Derek never faltered at, it was the deadpan, sarcastic snark. “Golly, it sure is nice to see you hanging around distracting employees, sitting on the furniture and--” Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Drinking out of Get Fit! plastic cups. Where did you get that?”

Stiles looked down at the grey-green sludge in his cup. “What, this? You see that pile of fruit over there?” Stiles jerked his chin at the door to the laundry room and took a long draw of the berry and spinach monstrosity. “Good stuff.” 

“Did you pay for it?” Derek’s arms crossed over his chest, and his nostrils flared with irritation. (For someone with a poker face as good as Derek’s, his nostrils were surprisingly expressive, if someone looked closely. And Stiles did, for some reason.)

Stiles shook his head, bouncing his heels off the front of the dryer just to see Derek get even more pissed. “Not so much.” 

“Stiles, there’s a _line_ \--” Derek started, looking seriously pissed off this time, not just exasperatedly resigned, but Scott spoke up before he could really get into his lecture.

“Stiles, stop jerking his chain.” He kicked Stiles’ sneaker covered foot, hard enough make him hiss, but not hard enough to bruise. “Don’t worry, Derek. It’s my weekly free one. I’m sick of pureed fruit and veggie beverages, so I pawn them off on anyone who’ll take them. Stiles will take them.” 

“I certainly will.” He’d scoffed at the idea of smoothies his entire life, even growing up in a place like California. He’d get his sustenance in solid form, thanks, he’d always said. But now that he was seriously struggling to get the daily--or weekly, who was he kidding?--leafy green veggies he used to get when he had a fridge to let them wither away in, he’d changed his tune a bit. Smoothies were still disgusting, and he’d rather masticate his raspberries himself if possible, but drinking his vitamins through a straw was significantly easier than forcing himself to eat an entire bag of baby carrots in one sitting, because they were never the same the next day and he couldn’t afford to waste them. 

“Fine.” Derek relaxed his pissed off posture a little bit, but he still glared at the rubber scuff marks on the dryer. “Like I said, Scott, your 1:30 is waiting by the treadmills.”

“Thanks, dude.” Scott snagged the empty towel basket, then held out his fist for Derek to bump. Stiles watched, delighted, as Derek lined his knuckles up perfectly with Scott’s before pressing them together with enough force that Scott was shaking his hand out as he left. Seriously, Derek was such an alien. 

Stiles hopped down from the counter and squatted next to the washing machine, impatiently checking the timer for how many minutes were left. He’d told Scott he didn’t mind waiting, and that was mostly true. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be. He hadn’t had a job interview in days. But there was only so much time he could spend showering and shaving before he was wrinkled as a prune and Derek was huffing and puffing and blowing his stall down. And they’d already established that neither of them wanted that. (Maybe. Well, he wouldn’t be heartbroken.) 

The machine churned away, and he caught glimpses of his black T-shirt against the pale towels. It probably wasn’t helping them stay whiter than white, but he kind of thought they were past the point of no return. 

“Do you like watching paint dry, as well?” 

Stiles looked up. He’d almost forgotten Derek was there, looming like a gargoyle on its day shift. “Not normally. Though, I can say from experience that vicodin is a hell of a drug. Makes drying paint trippy as balls.” 

Derek snorted, and Stiles suppressed a triumphant smile. He’d known the Garage Roof Incident of 2009 would make a great conversation piece someday. Granted, the paint he’d been so interested in was that of a terrifyingly abstract portrait of Obama he’d done while flying high on painkillers--he never had figured out why--that scared him a little, even sober, but Derek didn’t need to know that.

Stiles distracted himself by taking another drink from the smoothie, drawing out the sound of the straw sucking on the bottom of the nearly empty cup. Above him, Derek’s eyes snapped to Stiles’ mouth, which was probably red and maybe a tiny bit swollen from how long he’d been mauling the straw.

Stiles generally tried to keep his oral fixation under control, ever since the time he’d given Scott an accidental boner eating a coconut popsicle when they were 15. They were both so horrified and embarrassed by the incident that they vowed never to speak of it again, and Stiles attempted to curb his habit of feeling up anything that came within a couple of inches of his mouth with his lips and tongue. He’d gotten better with highlighters, pens--any art supplies, really, out of consideration for his classmates in college--but he just couldn’t quit straws. They were so bendy, and the squeaky noise they made when he had them between his teeth combined with the feeling of the plastic clicking across his molars was too satisfying to give up.

Stiles released the straw and darted his tongue out to lap up a drop of sticky berry juice that clung to the top of the plastic cup. As he expected, Derek’s eyes followed the movement. Stiles pursed his lips against a smile and stood up, placing the empty cup on the counter with a hollow clunk. “Have I got a smoothie mustache or something?”

Derek’s blinked his eyes back to awareness. “What? No.”

“You sure? You seemed to be staring pretty _hard_ at something just now, Derek.”

“I…” Stiles watched Derek struggle for a response to his heavy-handed innuendo for a handful of seconds before he let his smirk spread. Derek’s shell-shocked expression soured, but there was a tiny twitch of amusement there too. “Very mature.” 

“Like, rated M for Mature? I’m not the one staring at a guy’s mouth.” Stiles swiped his tongue across the soft inner part of his bottom lip, in a way he may have practiced in the mirror a few (hundred) times in his first year of college when he was putting himself out there for the first time. He’d figured out what his best features were and learned how to play them up, hopeful that they’d make up for the bad ones. (His nose, his scrawniness, his tendency to obsess over TV shows to the exclusion of all personal hygiene, etc.)

Derek looked away quickly, a ruddy blush rising to the clean-shaven upper parts of his cheeks. It made Stiles wonder if--given time and enough feeding of the fire--that blush would extend downward, making Derek’s chest glow red under the soft hair Stiles imagined it would be covered in. 

“I’m going now,” Derek bit out, and he turned to do just that. Stiles spotted a strip of pink-flushed skin between Derek’s hairline and the top of his sweater and high-fived himself for guessing correctly about that travelling blush. 

“You sure you wouldn’t rather be coming?” He called after Derek. Derek said nothing, only tensed up and walked faster through a gaggle of ladies waiting for their Zumba class. 

Stiles tossed his empty cup in the wastebasket with the nearly sentient piles of dryer lint, barely making the edge of it. He punched the air in front of him, celebrating a rare display of adequate hand-eye coordination and a far less rare victory over Derek in a battle of snark. His enjoyment of the moment was dimmed a bit by his reminder to himself that there were valid reasons why he’d decided to keep their vibe on this side of platonic. As fun as it was to lick his lips like a porn star and tease pretty blushes out of Derek, that had definitely been pushing it. 

It was a shame, since just that hint of sexual tension was enough to get Stiles a bit worked up, but it was better if they didn’t go there. He had a vivid fantasy of walking in the place when he finally got a job and a place, slapping down his credit card--the only one he qualified for, with its pitiful $400 limit--and saying _sign me up, big boy_ (Or something way less stupid) then getting Derek to help him with chest presses like that scene in Ghost. Only sweatier. And with way more people grunting and counting reps nearby. 

Maybe it wasn’t the most romantic start to a relationship. But it was his fantasy, and he figured he could play it out how he liked. He knew, deep down, that he’d probably missed his chance. Even if they did actually click as a couple once they stopped with the animosity, Derek had already rejected him once. _A mistake_ , he’d called their one kiss. Stiles probably wouldn’t ever work up the nerve to put himself out there again, not when he was almost guaranteed to be shot down. 

He allowed himself a moment of sharp regret that he hadn’t met Derek the normal way. It wasn’t inconceivable that they would have. Stiles could’ve tagged along to the Get Fit! holiday party with Scott, drunk too much eggnog and made out with that one hot trainer with the perfect alien face. It could’ve been a meet cute worthy of Scott’s rom com life, but in the style of Stiles. 

Shaking himself out of his attack of self-pity, he checked the timer on the washer again, and decided he had plenty of time to get his shower in. Now would be a perfect time, since Derek had scuttled away to the safety of his deep, dark Cave of Social Awkwardness. He didn’t waste time getting to his favourite stall, avoiding eye contact with the trio of extremely naked old guys who’d lost their sense of modesty in ‘Nam.

His weird melancholy washed down the drain with the cheap shampoo from the dispenser on the wall, but he was left with the aroused jitters from his charged exchange with Derek.  
He let his mind wander as he used the same suds from before as body wash. 

He really wanted to jerk off.

He knew it wasn’t very good etiquette for a shared shower space. People in the dorms used to get pissed when the drains got clogged up with unspeakable things back in college, and he cringed at the thought of someone’s jizz crusting on the cubicle he used every other day. But god dammit, it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to do it.

Admittedly, it was less of a problem than he’d originally feared. Back when his name was on a lease somewhere, he’d had a routine, and he’d been worried he’d have a hard time with the transition. But it turned out that worrying over having a roof over your head and a source of income was kind of a mood killer. So was having to sleep next to a bunch of strangers. 

That didn’t mean he was completely without urges. He sometimes took care of it in Scott’s bathroom, but it felt kind of wrong to do that to the Scott and Allison Love Nest. Otherwise, he just ignored it until it went away. But, here he was, in a relatively private space--now that the merry band of nudists had left--and relaxed enough to actually achieve a semi. Could anyone seriously blame him if he enjoyed one of the few simple pleasures left to him? He thought not. 

He poked his head out of the curtain, giving the room a last sweep, just in case he’d missed anyone coming in. He was still alone. Before he could close the flimsy plastic again, he noticed a cart of cleaning supplies in the corner of the room. He narrowed his eyes at it. It definitely wasn’t there all the time. Did that mean it’d recently been used to clean the place? Sure enough, he looked closer at the mop and scrub brushes still dark and damp from use. The mirror and sink were undeniably spotless, and the cubicle he was using did look cleaner than usual. Get Fit! wasn’t a shabby establishment by any means, but there seemed to be an extra glow of spic and span.

If that wasn’t a sign, he didn’t know what was. He used this shower more than any of the members, these days, so it seemed like his duty to christen it after its twice-weekly baptism. (Cleaning.)

He gave himself a last thorough rinse off, then settled back onto the slightly lemon-scented wall. The tile was cold, like ice compared to the hot water, and it felt at the same time acutely refreshing and instantaneously repelling. It felt good, kind of, but it also made him want to squirm away back into the sultry, languid steam. 

He closed his eyes and let his hands wander for a while, his fingers skidding across clean, wet skin. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly. Slowly. Not like his dad was going to walk in at any moment and tell him he was wasting his Saturday being a lazy bones. Though, he supposed that was a real possibility. Not actually his dad, obviously, but some member of the gym, or even staff. His hand spasmed on his lower stomach at the thought of Derek walking in there, yelling at him for using too much water, finally losing his cool enough to pull back the curtain and growl in his face, only to find Stiles in the middle of...not getting clean. 

With fumbling hands, he reached up to the the conditioner dispenser, the one he never used on his short hair. Abandoning his slow exploration, he coated his dick as swiftly and effectively as he could, hissing at the cool gel-like texture on his blood-hot skin. God, he loved that contrast. He always had. As a kid at the local pool, he’d spend only moments actually in the water, and the rest of it outside in the sun, waiting until he was covered with sweat, and the icy burn of re-entry would be shocking and sweet. 

Derek was like that, he thought, and he slowed his strokes, trying to draw it out, while knowing he didn’t have the strength of will. Derek was a block of frigid stone on the outside, hard and dark and coolly stoic. But underneath that ice, there was a core of burning steel, like the inside of an almost dormant volcano. That was the part of Derek that fought with Stiles all the time, instead of just rolling his eyes and silently seething. The part that made Stiles want to poke and prod until all that heat blew up all over him, chased away the cold that came with being alone so much of the time, isolated, even though he could reach out for company at any time. 

Stiles let out a harsh, sobbing breath that echoed off the tiles, and would have given him away if someone had been in the room with him. He hunched desperately into himself, rolling to brace one shoulder on the wall, his hand flying faster over his cock as guilty, scalding thoughts of Derek-- _Derek, Derek_ \--refused to leave his brain. He came to the vision of Derek’s eyes, blazing with a different kind of heat than normal. Not annoyance and reluctant attraction, but hot, wet, consuming want--

“Jesus fuck,” he mumbled to himself when he finally came down to earth. He wasn’t surprised that his first orgasm in weeks had been an explosive one, but he hadn’t come like that since the first time he discovered what a prostate was for.

He tried not to feel too guilty about his fantasies. What Derek didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Instead, he enjoyed the afterglow, tilting the showerhead so he stayed under the spray, but sagging against the wall, rather than holding his own weight up with unreliable knees.

Eventually, the water started to lose it’s bite, and his fingers pruned up slightly. He reached up and swivelled the showerhead around the stall, washing away anything that landed on the wall. After he was finished shaving and dressing, he borrowed a spray bottle from the cart and and used it on the cubicle, dousing every inch that could conceivably have gotten come on it. It’d probably still light up like a christmas tree under a blacklight, but who was checking that? Certainly not Derek. 

Now that Stiles was spent, and no longer overcome by his poorly-buried exhibitionist streak, he could snicker at the thought of what Derek’s face would actually look like if he found out what Stiles had been doing. The slightly hysterical amusement was a nice addition to the warm sluggishness that lingered after his orgasm. 

Simple pleasures, he reminded himself as he shrugged on his backpack and put the bottle back. He had to take them where he could get, because they didn’t last long in the too-familiar streets of Brooklyn.


	8. Chapter 8

“So, when should I book the time off work to come and visit the city?” Lydia said over the tinny speakers on the loaned library laptop. 

Stiles felt bad for being that asshole who refused to use headphones in a public area, but he had to make it as believable as possible that he was actually in his own living room. He’d claimed a secluded trio of chairs in the farthest corner of the library, and used it every time, his mouse constantly hovering over the mute button, just in case anyone came over and wanted to check out a book about Russian grammar. Written in Russian. He also couldn’t speak too softly, a fact than garnered him more than a few glares, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. 

Stiles laughed awkwardly, hoping it came off more surprised than terrified. “Well, the city is available to be visited anytime. Me, however? I don’t know, I might have to become unavailable until I feel a little more appreciated.” 

Lydia’s flippantly waved hand blurred on the screen, the library’s feeble connection having trouble keeping up. “Oh, come off it. You know I’d be killing two birds with one stone. Refreshing my business wardrobe with the most impressive clothes money can buy, and visiting my dear friend, lost to the wilds of the metropolis and unable to take any time off, at all, not even for a very important champagne birthday celebration of one of his oldest confidantes.”

His friendship with Lydia was far and away the best thing that had come from Scott’s--and consequently Stiles’--entry into the social stratosphere of Beacon Hills High School. He hadn’t bonded with the jocks the way Scott had, and had spent the first few months of sitting at the High and Mighty table of the cafeteria making snarky comments under his breath about every crude joke, or humblebrag about lacrosse stats. Eventually, he muttered something loud enough that Lydia heard, and the rest was history. 

He was pretty sure Lydia was the sole reason why he didn’t consider his sexuality to be 50/50 anymore. If he had to put a number on it, it was a lot closer to 80/20 in favour of guys, because even though he and Lydia were too close of friends to work romantically anymore, no woman would ever measure up to Lydia, in Stiles’ mind. The comparison wasn’t fair to any girl Stiles had a passing interest in. Guys were a whole different ballgame, though, so he wasn’t upset about it. 

He really had been sorry to miss her birthday. She’d made a big deal out of the occasion, said it was a rite of passage. The first party she’d thrown herself as an adult, with hors d'oeuvres, music, classy decorations and everything. The party had been months ago, and she was still guilting him, drawing blood every time she implied that he hadn’t come because he hadn’t wanted the hassle of coming all the way to San Fran. It hurt that she thought it wasn’t out of character for him to be so selfish. 

“Lyds, I’m sorry about that. I told you, I wanted to come, I just--”

“I know.” Lydia fiddled with the edge of a perfectly filed-down, ink stained fingernail. “Sorry. It was just weird not to have you there, when you were next to me the whole time in my head for two years of planning. You got the job you did because you care so much about everything you do. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t. I just wish they weren’t such hard-asses about vacation time.” 

He swallowed past the lump of shame in his throat. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“But you’ve been there for almost a year, now. They have to let you have at least a little time off, it’d be in your contract. Why don’t you take a long weekend or something? I could come down, help you spruce up your awful apartment, shop to my heart’s content, then head back home after four days or so. It’d be perfect.” 

Panic constricted his chest. “Lydia, I--”

“Yes?” Her eagle eyes glinted, even through the pixelated screen.

“I don’t think there’s much you can do to spruce up the dump I’m staying in. I couldn’t subject you to it, it wouldn’t be fair.” He knew as soon as he said it that it wasn’t going to derail her.

“Fine, then. If you’re too embarrassed by living in squalor, I’ll stay in a hotel.” 

“That’s so expensive though. I’d feel bad if you had to spend all that money on top of a plane ticket. I’m going to try and get Thanksgiving off. Why don’t we wait until then, and then you won’t have to pay for a trip I’ll be making anyway?” At least, he hoped he’d be making it. He had a job interview tomorrow that he was going to crush, and once he was making money again, he had a plan on how to ask Scott for the cash to go home for a few days. 

Lydia went so still, he thought the stream had stalled. “Stiles,” she said, at length. “Why don’t you want me to visit you?”

“It’s not that I don’t--”

“Don’t bullshit me, Stilinski.” Stiles shut his mouth with a click. “That is a stupid reason for me not to come, and you know it. There’s something you’re not telling me, and I want to know what it is right now.” She frowned, her eyes flicking over him, missing nothing, because she never did. “Is anything wrong?”

He felt like his fight or flight response was kicking in. He knew he didn’t look the picture of health. The stress was taking its toll, and he could see the physical effects in the mirror at the gym, under the unforgiving fluorescent lights. The circles under his eyes. The shredded skin of his lips. The thinning cotton of the T-shirt even Scott Oblivious McCall had noticed he wore way too often. It would be a pretty large leap of logic for Lydia to see the signs of exhaustion all over him and his obvious reluctance to have her in New York and add it all up to equal jobless, homeless and penniless. But if there was one thing Lydia was good at, it was solving tough puzzles. She _couldn’t_ know, so his terror put words in his mouth. 

“I’m trying to put some distance between me and Beacon Hills.” 

Lydia’s lips twisted into a peony pink sneer. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Stiles, but I don’t live in Beacon Hills. I left it in the same dust you did.” 

Stiles drew his knees up into his chest, using them to hide the laptop where it was perched on the table. He put his head in his hands while he talked, unable to look at her, or he’d give it all away. “I know, but it’s what you represent. I feel like I’ll never be anything more than a small town kid living in the big, scary city if I don’t have some time apart from you all. It won’t be forever.”

“Oh, it won’t?” Her sharp voice made the microphone buzz and pop. 

“No. I don’t want it to be. You’re still one of my best friends, and I don’t want to lose that, not at all. But for now, I just need to find myself--”

“Well, when you’re finished searching, maybe you should take a good look behind you. You might see all the people who used to care about you. 

“Lydia, please, you’re everything to--” The screen flashed with the _call ended symbol_. With a nearly silent scream, he slammed the top of the laptop down, then pulled the wide-mouthed hood of his sweater down over his head. He’d only dug the thing out of his box of stuff at Scott’s last week, and he was glad of it now. He felt like wailing and sobbing, beating his fists against the floor like a child’s tantrum. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and let his eyes leak into the fabric of the sweater, letting his shame and misery build and build in his chest and throat. 

Lydia now thought that he didn’t want to see her, that he didn’t care about their friendship. That couldn’t be further from the truth. He would have given _so much_ to see her in person, smell her perfume and get lost in her soft, surprisingly tender hugs. But he supposed he didn’t have anything to give. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? All he had was the clothes he walked around in, the few things he carried with him, and his battered, worthless, fucking pride. 

She couldn’t know. He absolutely could not tell her that their milestones on the 10 year plans they’d designed together were not matching up at all. If she found out...first, she’d be furious with him. She’d say all the things he’d told himself over and over, but still couldn’t accept, that his friends and family would have helped him, and he should have told her ages ago. Next, she’d pity him. Purse her lips and tell him it wasn’t fair of his old work to give him such short notice. Then, she’d persuade him to come home. He’d be helpless in the face of her logic and her credit card on the invoice for a ticket back home. She’d steamroll over him and get him a high paying office job in the name of friendship, because, to her, unemployed was the worst thing anyone could possibly be. Stiles would be helpless to stop it, because he always was with her. 

Then, it’d be over. His dad would be right that comic books were a hobby, not a career, and Stiles would be left wondering for the rest of his life as a paper-pusher counting down the days to retirement whether Lydia had ever actually believed he could have done it. Or if she’d always thought, in the back of her mind, that he was completely deluded to think he was one of the ones who had what it took. Talented, yes, but exceptional? Not really. Not like her. 

No. She could never know. He’d grovel at her feet for forgiveness the next time he saw her, tell her he was wrong and was finished having an identity crisis. She’d hold it against him until she died, but at least they’d still be friends. He had to believe that they’d still be friends when he came out on the other side of this. He was so close. He had a really good feeling about tomorrow’s interview, for a position at a theatre, fleshing out concept art for set pieces and costumes. It sounded interesting, and definitely something he could do. He’d get the job, then worry about fixing everything he’d broken.

For now, though, he just wanted to take a little time to feel sorry for himself. He curled up in the library’s armchair for a while, replaying every stupid, necessary thing he’d said, rubbing his cheek against the soft fleece of the inside of his hood to try and make himself feel like everything was going to be fine. 

He nearly jumped out of his seat when someone tapped his shoulder. 

“Excuse me,” the librarian said from as far away as she could get while still being able to reach him. 

“Ye--” He coughed. His voice sounded like he’d been crying for hours, even though his eyes were dry. “Yeah?” 

“Your time’s up on that laptop. I need you to come sign it back in.” 

Stiles frowned at the laptop, closed but still humming with life. “But I had it checked out until six.”

“It’s ten minutes past. Would you mind coming with me to the desk? The next person is waiting for it.” 

“What? _Shit_.” He jumped up from the chair, checking his phone and seeing that she was right. He hadn’t thought he’d been mourning the sad state of his life so long. “Can we do this quickly? I gotta go.” 

His whole body jittered with impatience through the whole process, but eventually, he was out the door and headed for the shelter he’d been staying in for the past few days. He didn’t like it as much, but he’d outstayed his welcome at the last one. They had rules about how long someone could stay for free, then started charging per night after the trial period was over. It was pretty standard procedure, he’d found out, but it meant he had to move to a place that was way busier and filled up quicker. He’d had to get used to waiting outside the building as early as five in the afternoon to make absolutely sure he got a bed.  
By the time he got there on foot, it was already almost seven, but he joined the line anyway, crossing his fingers that tonight would be less crowded than normal. 

They hit the cut off with 10 people in front of him. Everyone who’d been waiting dispersed pretty quickly after that, but Stiles was stuck to the ground with nauseating disappointment churning in his gut. 

He went up to the desk as they started to pack up. “Nobody ever changes their mind, do they?” He asked, not expecting an answer he’d be happy with. 

One of the women smiled at him, but it was a sad smile. “Sorry, sweetie. You can try St Augustine’s, maybe.” 

He shook his head, numbly. “It’ll take me an hour to get there. They’ll be closed by then. 

“I’m sorry. People sometimes spend the night in the parking lot out back. There’s an awning. We have some blankets to hand out.” 

“Thanks.” He waved them off and moved aimlessly down the street. Now that he wasn’t speedwalking on a second wind of panic, he realized how tired and sore he was. He was always tired, these days, and walking around in wet shoes the other week had given him a blister that just wouldn’t quit. 

His mind raced with possibilities. He could go back to the library, try to get a couple of hours of sleep in a quiet corner before they closed at 10. A cat nap wouldn’t do him much good, though. He could pressure Scott into an impromptu sleepover. Except--he checked his phone--it was Friday. Date night. The only night Scott ever consistently made sure he booked off work, sacred and written in stone, barring dire emergencies. Or mild emergencies, if someone asked him nicely enough. Scott was easily persuaded, especially by someone who’d learned all the right buttons to lean on when they both still wore sneakers with velcro on them.

So his options were limited, to say the least. When he got to the end of the block, he looked back at the doors of the shelter, already locked up tight and the few feet of concrete covered by the overhanging building filling up with a couple people claiming a spot. He didn’t want to sleep here. Sure, there was safety in numbers, sometimes, but he just couldn’t stomach huddling outside the doors that had been closed to him because of his own forgetfulness. Like a dog getting punished by being shooed away from a comfy couch. 

Instead, he walked in the direction of a park about the size of a drink coaster that he’d spent too many hours loitering in. There was a bench there that was in an odd location, just 15 feet away from some kind of generator and partially hidden by scraggly trees that didn’t provide much shade in the daytime. Not many people ever visited that corner, so the bench went mostly undiscovered, and most importantly, unpatrolled by cops.

He sat heavily on the bench, taking out his extra shirt from his backpack and holding it in his hand. He wasn’t quite ready to shove his bag into something resembling a pillow and use the shirt to ineffectually cover whatever was coldest. 

This wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Two months ago-- _God, two months already_ , he thought--when it had all started, he’d been a bit too ambitious and thought that spending from 9AM til 10PM in the library agonizing over every word on his resumé would do anything for him beyond make him too late to get into any shelter before they hit the maximum bodies in cots. But that time, under the feeble stars in the heat of July, it had seemed a little like a romantic sort of adventure. Something he’d write about in a tell-all book when he was famous. 

He needed a little roughing up, he’d supposed at the time. No artist had a happy youth and lived to see any sort of fame. Sure, he had the dead mother thing, but that wasn’t gritty enough. The world didn’t need another Uncle Ben. 

So it was all just a little bit exciting, as well as terrifying. A boy making his way in the world, the highs and lows of big city life. He’d wished he had his plucky best friend there, but then again, he probably would have felt like the sidekick in his own story. At least if he was alone, it was his own book, not just a subplot in a longer chapter. 

There was no excitement this time. It was just uncomfortable and depressing. Stiles let out a sigh and imagined that he could see a wisp of visible breath. It was getting colder and colder every week as the time marched on to the end of September. He remembered being blown away by the shock of winter on the East coast when he and Scott had arrived in the city just in time for Christmas. 

Pulling his hood down over his eyes and tucking his hands into the sleeves of his sweater, he laid down on the bench, trying to find a position that didn’t feel like he was spending the night on an unyielding pile of wood and metal just waiting for morning to come. He needed to sleep. Tomorrow, he had to knock his interview out of the park and get things back to normal. If he didn’t, he might not before winter came, and his time ran out.


	9. Chapter 9

Showers washed away a multitude of sins. Or problems or worries. Pain, sometimes. When Stiles used to get stress migraines in high school, he’d curl up fetal in the tub with the water beating down on the back of his neck. He was never sure if it actually helped with the headache, or the acidic, churning nausea, but it somehow made him feel more human when the agony took over and made him want to scoop his eyes out of their sockets. 

They didn’t fix everything, though. Sometimes, the problems that had seemed insurmountable while the water heated up were just as daunting when the tap was shut off. Stiles was hoping that today wouldn’t be one of those showers. Today, he was hoping for a miracle. 

He wanted to check his phone again as he stood on the escalator up to the gym, letting it do the work for once. Reading it again wouldn’t change the text of the email he’d gotten an hour ago. _Thank you for your interest. However, another applicant has been selected..._ Nothing new. He’d heard it a thousand times, along with _Sorry, we’re not hiring_ , and _5+ years job experience_. But this time seemed particularly hard to bear. He’d given his all in that interview. Talked the talk, made compelling eye contact, spouted all the interesting facts he’d learned about the organization on the wikipedia page. He’d walked out feeling like a champion, and like his luck had changed. This was why he preferred being a pessimist. No hope meant no crushing disappointment.

The escalator spat him out at the top of the stairs and he dragged his heels over to the entrance of the gym. Scott wasn’t working until later, which was the only reason why Stiles thought it was safe to show his face there. He was good at acting, at pretending nothing was wrong when really _everything was wrong_. But he was too exhausted to act today. He felt like he hadn’t yet recovered from his mostly sleepless night on the park bench. It’d been too cold and too unsafe for a REM cycle. He knew he’d been extraordinarily lucky not to have spent more nights there, but he felt like he was still trying to catch up, even in a cot in the shelter. As it was, he almost tripped over nothing as he crossed the threshold of Get Fit! It’d been happening all day, but he was hopeful that he’d feel better when he washed the bone-deep weariness down the drain. 

From one second to the next, the wall he was looking at wasn’t the door to the shower, but the broad expanse of Derek’s chest. Derek stood solidly, his arms crossed under the logo splayed across the front of his jacket. Immovable.

Stiles deflated, feeling like he’d lost a few inches of height that he’d never get back. He didn’t say anything, having already played out the conversation exactly as it would go in his head, and decided he didn’t have the energy for it today. “Fine,” he bit out, and he turned to go. 

“What’s wrong?” Derek demanded before Stiles could pass the desk. 

Only shock kept him from blowing off the blunt question. “Nothing. Just a really bad day.” 

“I’m sorry.”

Derek’s voice was flat and soft. Not as gruff or strident as Stiles had come to expect. His sincerity smoothed out the rough edges. Stiles turned around and saw the same unfamiliar softness in Derek’s face.

“It’s fine,” Stiles said, the tight knot of misery that seemed Gordian earlier loosening just a bit. “Nothing you can do about it.” 

They looked at each other for a long moment, saying nothing, upbeat music thumping around them from farther in. Derek’s eyes--and his whole face, really--were so intense on a normal day. Stiles had gotten used to being under the microscope of that gaze when it was shooting angry daggers at him, and when it was searching for social cues in Stiles’ tone and body language. He hadn’t yet built up a tolerance to Derek’s eyes when they were boring into his like he could see the map of the wrong turn Stiles’ life had taken on his clothes, his skin, his hair. It made him want to run. It also made him want to scream, and spill everything he’d ever thought was completely unfair about his predicament, with no care at all how many of the rich people enjoying the swanky services of their high-end gym heard him. 

When Derek finally moved, Stiles took a step back, a little worried that his legs would give out, (and a lot more worried that it wouldn’t be because of the exhaustion) but Derek just walked behind the desk, opened a drawer and took something out. Stiles looked behind himself at the door, wondering if this was him getting dismissed, but when he turned back, Derek was rounding the counter again. He was holding something about the size of a business card, and Stiles held out his hand automatically when Derek reached out. 

A second later, the card was slapped into his palm, its bright red font reading _3 Day Guest Pass!!!_ Stiles looked down at it, his brain whiting out with surprise and elation. 

“Don’t abuse it,” Derek grumbled, but it lacked the bite Stiles would have expected. “I hope you know this is hurting me inside.” 

“Yeah, I can tell.” Stiles had meant it to come out sarcastic and flippant, but he was smiling too wide. He saluted Derek with the card and stepped around him, heading toward the showers before Derek could change his mind. 

*** 

15 minutes and way too much hot water later, Stiles still didn’t have a job or a place to live, or an idea of how to ask his Dad or Scott for money without giving everything away, but he had clean skin, conditioned hair and eyes that opened fully without ripping one or two eyelashes out because of the piles of sleep goop in the corners. He relaxed into the routine of showering, towelling and shaving, thankful for the distraction. 

He shaved every time he came here, even though he didn’t really need it. He didn’t possess the ability to grow a neat perma-scruff like Derek. But even if he could get away with a few more days than he typically did, he also knew he couldn’t just let his sorry excuse for a beard grow. This, he knew from experience. He’d done some experimenting over finals week in his sophomore year of college, and he could never get beyond the patchy horrible stage to where he could groom it enough to stop looking like a homeless person. Now that he actually was a homeless person, it felt like a punch in the gut, so he made sure to keep himself clean shaven.

When every step of his ritual had been performed, he shrugged on his backpack and pushed out the door, dreading the crash back to problems and anxieties from the safe place of borrowed soap and shaving cream. 

Derek was at the desk scanning the tags of a group of guys headed for the mirror-walled weight room, nodding at each of them in a movement that seemed so practiced it must have been taught to him by someone. Stiles grinned just imagining it. “ _Okay, Derek. This is how we casually greet a member of the Dudebro genus, subspecies meathead. They will think you are one of them, so you must use your mimicking abilities, or the interaction will quickly devolve into a battle of dominance. Dominance over what, you ask? No one knows. Just go with it._ ”

When they shuffled past, leaving a cloud of Axe vapour, Stiles came up to the counter, tapping his fingers in a nervous non-rhythm on the top. It took Derek about five seconds to get sick of the banging. He flicked his eyes up from his laptop to Stiles, and Stiles knocked it off. He’d gotten what he wanted. 

“So,” said Stiles. 

_So_ , said Derek’s eyebrows. 

“Um, how’s your day going?” Small talk was hard, Stiles decided. Maybe Derek’s alienness was rubbing off on him.

“Better than yours, apparently.” 

Stiles had to laugh. After hearing that from anybody else, he would have immediately bristled and cursed an internal blue streak at whoever was feeling so high and mighty with their perfect freaking day with its bright sunshine and tweeting songbirds. But Derek’s comment wasn’t a dig or a jibe. He was too blunt for that. It was refreshing, especially considering that most Stiles said could have three different meanings, even to himself. 

“That’s true. But it isn’t as bad as it was an hour ago.” 

Derek’s eyes meandered back to his computer screen, then he nodded, mutely. He probably knew that was the closest Stiles was going to get to saying thank you out loud. Stiles relaxed now that his obligatory show of gratitude was completed, but he still felt like he didn’t want to just leave. Today had been a weird day for them and their history of near-constant antagonism, and he wanted to test out the strange and kind of wonderful moment of taut and exhilarating peace. He leaned over the desk into Derek’s space, looking for some ammunition on the screen for a conversation starter. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected--a dorky screen saver or something, perhaps. Or a Facebook fan page Derek moderated on the topic of water conservation in urban areas--but he didn’t expect to see a candid photo of Derek smiling. Not smirking or sneering, either. Just a soft, happy smile, made even deeper by the bright sun that made everyone in the picture squint with eyes that looked very similar. 

“Is that your family?” Stiles asked, even though it was obvious. 

“Yes.” Derek sounded suspicious, and he reached for the lid of his laptop to close it, but Stiles stopped him with a few fingers on the display. They left an oily smudge, which Derek frowned at, then swiped ineffectively with his own thumb, but the laptop stayed open. 

“They look nice.” Nice like apple pie made with fruit they all picked themselves at a local farm. A cozy, familiar niceness that settled into the spaces between their bones and kept them tied to each other in a way distance couldn’t overcome. Stiles remembered what it felt like to be part of a family that was whole and happy and...nice. 

“They are.” 

“Do you miss them?” He didn’t know how he knew that they weren’t geographically close. He just did. 

Derek stared at Stiles like he was a cipher to decode, then burn after reading. He watched as Derek looked for ways the question could turn into a joke or an dig that would make him sorry he’d answered honestly. Stiles didn’t try to convince him that it was just a genuine question. He just waited until Derek figured that out for himself and answered, simply, “Always.” 

Stiles nodded. Sometimes he missed his dad and his bone-crushing hugs so much he thought his chest would burst from the ache of wanting to just be there, instantly and with no consequences. But it would always return to the low-grade pang of awareness of the distance. Derek looked like he was still in the chest burster phase. 

Stiles made a grabby hand toward the printer on the shelf beside Derek. “Gimme a piece of paper, will you?” 

“That guest pass doesn’t entitle you to unlimited office supplies,” Derek snarked, but he handed over a sheet of A4. 

Stiles grabbed a good ink pen from his backpack, then nudged the laptop so he could see the whole picture more clearly. “Who’s that?” He asked, pointing to the girl in the centre. 

“My older sister. Laura.” 

“Tell me about her.” 

He sketched the shape of Laura’s face while he listened, then moved on to the other people in the photo. The other girl, Cora, who looked older than she was. The youngest, a boy, making a frowny face like his older brother’s, though Stiles could tell his heart wasn’t in it. The uncle lurking in the background.

While Stiles drew, Derek talked. He didn’t babble, or trip over the words spewing from his mouth, but he said more in one go than Stiles had ever heard, in short bursts, tiny tidbits of information about his family, people Stiles had never met, would likely never meet, but felt like he was getting to know through what Derek shared. 

His dad thought black pepper was way too spicy. His mom could eat a whole jalapeno without flinching. 

Cora only played sports because she wanted as many trophies as Derek. The moment she passed that number, she’d focus more on the dance classes she loved.

Laura still hadn’t told their parents about the tattoo she’d gotten on her 18th birthday, but Derek thought they knew anyway. 

The picture took shape quickly, guided by the reference photo, but not married to it. He took liberties with their facial expressions, but kept the shape of their noses and lips--easily done, since they all seemed to match either their mom or their dad. He put his own style on it, but stayed true to the feeling he got from the original. He imagined it was someone’s birthday, or a family trip for a long weekend. A happy occasion, unmarred by the knowledge that they’d lose the older boy to the wilds of New York City in just a few years. Or maybe they did know, and they were full of so much love that it didn’t matter or ruin the atmosphere. 

When it was done, he didn’t sign it. It wasn’t about him, and he didn’t want to leave a reminder of himself behind, in case Derek had such a bad memory of him that it soured the happiness Stiles hoped he’d feel when he looked at the picture later. He slid the finished product across the desk and spun it around for Derek to see. Obviously, Derek had figured out what he was doing pretty quickly, but the reveal of what it looked like rightside up was everything Stiles could have hoped for.

Derek smiled, just like the Derek in the picture. It made him look younger, and Stiles started to doubt his certainty that the photo had been taken years ago. His face changed so much, Stiles hardly recognized him. 

“Thank you,” Derek said, and traced a corner of the paper that was folded up from Stiles’ wrist moving across the drawing. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

They lapsed into silence again, just as charged as it had been before. Stiles felt the tingle of the urge to start poking and irritating the dormant conflict they always let themselves be caught up in. It drove him nuts, but in a way he couldn’t get enough of. He liked the feeling of being constantly off balance, like Derek would push him off the ledge they were sharing at any moment. He liked it because he also felt like there was an equal chance Derek would pull him in tight and safe if he fell off that same ledge by accident.

Derek tucked the picture into his messenger bag and Stiles hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder. He couldn’t justify staying any longer, since he was back to square one on the job front. He needed to finish three more applications by the time the library closed if he was going to meet his self-imposed quota for the week. 

He gave Derek a two finger wave as he left, and committed Derek’s final appreciative nod to memory. The problems he’d had going into the gym hadn’t disappeared. He was still jobless, homeless and nearly penniless, but at least now he had something else to occupy his mind so he wasn’t just constantly worrying about any of those issues. 

Now, he also had to wade through a haze of regret with every step he took away from the desk and Derek’s tiny, happy smile. Stiles allowed himself to wish, more than anything, that he hadn’t ended the spark of something they could have had with such finality. He could have been honest, told Derek _Not now_ , instead of _Not ever_. By the time the day was over, he promised himself, he’d be over his low moment of dwelling on the recent past. He had enough to worry about for the future without getting distracted by the fact that tossing well-aimed barbs back and forth with Derek felt the same to him as the scrape of ardent nails down his back when his blood was high and the pain was lost in the maelstrom of messy, violent sex.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning in end notes.

Stiles was really out of money. 

Before he’d lost his job, he hadn’t been rich. They hadn’t paid him much and the rent in New York was just as killer as he’d read about. He might not have had enough savings to keep a roof over his head for any amount of time, but his bank account hadn’t been empty. 

Up until now, he’d mostly survived on the meager savings he’d had, the proceeds from his reluctantly pawned iPad, and the birthday money his dad had sent him. That gift of $200 had really saved him. In the days before it had arrived, he’d had to ask a stranger if they had a few dollars for “bus fare,” because he’d “forgotten his wallet.” A couple people fell for it, and he’d used it to buy some cheap granola bars. He hadn’t had to truly beg, but he’d been close. He hadn’t known how far 200 bucks could stretch until it was all he had. 

But it ran out. At the beginning of the week, an older lady saw past the lost wallet story and gave him a ten dollar bill for one subway ride. He bought peanut butter, grainy bread and an orange with it, and every time he ate some, he couldn’t help but break down the math in his head, calculating how much each slice and spoonful cost him. 10 cents. 15 cents. It added up. 

He drew a few portraits for tourists, but on some days, when he didn’t get any takers, it wasn’t worth the train fare to get to Central Park. He also didn’t have a license for that kind of thing, and the last thing he wanted was to be booked and fined. He was also pretty sure his dad had a mole in the NYPD who’d snitch if they caught wind of a Stilinski in the building. And even though he could make a few bucks doing that, he was still only barely treading water, with nothing to spare. There were days he didn’t have enough change for the copier at the library, so he couldn’t print off a resume to apply to a job.

He turned off the hot water, then let his head rest on the tiled wall of the shower. He felt clean, but not as refreshed as he usually did. He was lightheaded, actually, and his stomach hurt. The last time he’d eaten was the soup kitchen the day before. He was headed there now, but he was so hungry he wanted to throw up the entire time he dressed and shaved. And wasn’t that counter-productive of him.

He pushed open the door with a heavy sigh, dreading having to high-tail it past Derek, but for some reason, the desk was abandoned. He frowned at the smiley face on the self-serve notice, then spotted the reason. Erica had taken over for Derek, but she was chatting up a huge guy next to the towel rack 20 feet away. She looked pretty distracted. Stiles would be too, with those muscles in his line of sight while he was working.

He relaxed a bit, relieved that he wouldn’t have to run anywhere. He wasn’t in any shape for it. He gave the area one last sweeping look before he’d make his escape, but a flash of red on the smoothie bar made him pause. There was a huge basket of strawberries on the counter, presumably waiting to be chopped and added to the tubs of available fruit and veg. 

Stiles didn't even like strawberries that much. He was more of a chocolate person. And they were probably from China or South America or something, since they were completely out of season, with big white streaks around the top. (He’d been spoiled, though he hadn’t realized it, by living in California his whole life, with a lot of the produce he bought at the store coming from no more than an hour or two away.) Despite all that, his mouth started to water. The strawberries looked better than anything he’d ever tasted. Good enough that Stiles’ fingers itched, and his eyes travelled guiltily from the empty entrance to the unmanned desk.

Through all this time, weeks of wondering whether his next meal would be at the shelter or non-existent, he’d never felt so low that he’d consider something like this. Sure, he borrowed stuff from Scott and Allison that they’d never miss, with the full intention of replacing it all with Bed, Bath & Beyond gift cards when he had a job again. This was different, and so much worse. But he thought hard about stealing the strawberries. 

The gym had tons of customers, the devil on his shoulder whispered. They were probably raking it in. One missing carton of strawberries wasn’t going to put them in the red. No one would even notice they were gone, and if they did, no one would ever connect it to him, not even Derek. The angel on the other side might have tried to say something after that, but it was drowned out by the growling of his stomach and the mantra in his head of _Not fair. Not **Fair. Not Fair.”** _

Life wasn’t fair. Or, at least, it hadn’t been to him. Good people like Scott, who work hard, they get what they want sometimes. What they deserve. But some people, like Stiles, who might not have been quite as good as Scott, or Allison, or his dad, but who was at least 75% of the way to morally right, could work his ass off and still end up in a public park eating peanut butter straight from the jar with a plastic spoon he’d washed and reused 30 times because a metal one was too heavy to carry around in the backpack that carried his whole life. And sometimes, assholes won the lottery. Life wasn’t fair. Why should Stiles play by the rules, when all that had gotten him was tossed on his ass in the fucking gutter?

He gripped the handle of the door he was half-in-and-out of and looked over at Erica again. She was still very much occupied, and no one else was looking in his direction.  
He was enough of a familiar face that no one would question his presence at the smoothie bar, so he opened the door all the way and walked over to it as nonchalantly as he could with his heart pumping a mile a minute and his head throbbing from his low blood sugar.

The best way to do it would be to act like he was doing exactly what he was supposed to, he figured. So as he passed, he scooped them up off the bar, then carried on at the exact same pace. Breaking into a run would only have given away that he was up to something. A couple steps later, no one yelled after him to stop. Past the welcome desk, he didn’t feel a security guard’s heavy hand on his shoulder. Out the entrance, everything was normal and smooth-sailing.

He’d done it. It was a struggle to keep the hysterical grin off his face, so he tried to think of the nutrients in strawberries instead. Probably vitamin C, right? He might still stave off scurvy until he could get a job. Tomorrow, _someone_ would call him with another interview, and he’d walk in and blow them all away. Things were going to change. He would _make them_ change.

High on the exhilaration of his successful heist, he took a berry off the top of the pile and bit off the red part, the sticky juice from the stem staining his fingers. He only had a second to enjoy the burst of sweet and tart flavour before the fruit turned to dust in his mouth. 

Derek was at the top of the escalator, his face tilted down, looking at his phone. From his unhurried stride and the steaming cup of coffee from the expensive shop downstairs in his hand, Stiles guessed Derek was on his break.

Stiles froze, which was the opposite of what he should have done, really. Derek finally looked up, and the spark of tentatively pleased recognition in his eyes faded when they flicked from Stiles’ face, to the carton of berries, to the smoothie bar in the gym behind him, its strawberry bowl empty. Realization and stunned betrayal closed down Derek’s face in the same instant. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Derek asked, sounding too surprised to be truly savage. 

Stiles panicked, hating the prickling heat of shame so much that he made a quick, stupid decision to press the strawberries into Derek’s hands. “Here, I bought these for you. A peace offering.” 

It was a shitty lie, delivered in a flat, disingenuous tone. He couldn’t find the showmanship and sham he usually used on Scott when he forgot his birthday, or his dad when he asked if Stiles was okay with selling the house his mom had raised him in. 

Derek saw through it right away. “No, you didn’t. You stole these. From right there.” 

Stiles followed the line of Derek’s accusing finger to the empty space on the counter just visible through the open doors. “I…It’s not what you think,” he stammered, frantically trying to think of a plausible reason for theft that wasn’t _I haven’t eaten in 20 hours, and I have literally a single quarter to my name._

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Derek spat, his hand tightening dangerously on his coffee. Or...hot chocolate, it looked like. Because of course Stiles needed to be distracted by that fun fact when he was getting a strip torn off him. “Any one of us could have called the security on you every time you came here. This is how you repay us?” 

Behind him, Stiles became aware of whispering, and he felt the weight of eyes on his neck. A guy in a suit and tie had to walk around them, giving them a curious look. Not surprising, since Swankville Mall didn’t get that many raised voices or confrontational postures. 

”You don’t understand,” Stiles tried, fixing his gaze on the floor to avoid Derek’s fury. 

“What, that you’re a lazy good for nothing who leeches off other people because he’s too busy with his cartoons to get a real job?”

Stiles flinched back. No dart had ever cut so deep. As brutal as they’d ever gotten with each other, Stiles had never bled so much. He thought of the portrait he’d drawn of Derek’s family, and wanted it back, to rip it up and cram the pieces into the slimy grate of the shower drain. He wanted to hide everything he’d ever drawn away from anyone’s eyes, to avoid even the remote possibility that Derek would ever see one again. Because he was right. Stiles was good for nothing. He _was_ a leech, and it _was_ his cartoons and his absurd, childish wish to draw pictures for the rest of his life that had gotten him here. 

He felt his arms by his sides turn ice cold, but at once heavy and sensationless. He wanted to be done fighting. This venom, this twisting, nauseating tension between them made him want to curl up and solidify like the useless column of filthy dust and oxygen he’d felt like for weeks. But of course, his mouth ran away from him, still trying to talk his way out, however futilely. 

“I needed them,” he said, in a weak almost-whine. 

Derek’s bark of laughter was harsh and mirthless. “Why? And don’t fucking tell me you spent your grocery money on Starbucks.” 

The anger that he’d been living with and keeping at a simmer since he showed up to work to find he didn’t have a job flared to life. “No. I don’t have any money.” 

Derek’s jaw worked around a mean, sharp smile. “There’s a difference between not being able to budget and having no money, Stiles.” 

All the words and pleas for help he’d wanted to say to Scott or Lydia or his dad pushed and pulled at his throat until he thought he would gag from it. He couldn’t tell them, for so many reasons, and hadn’t and would never, but he needed to tell someone or he was going to lose his mind, and that someone, however unsympathetic or scornful he might be, would have to be Derek. 

“I know,” Stiles said, through gritted teeth. “And I know what it means to have. No. Money.” 

Stiles’ voice echoed away into the high ceiling of the mall, but Stiles was past caring who heard, as long as it wasn’t Scott. Or maybe, as long as it _was_ Scott. He didn’t know if he had the energy anymore to care if Scott found out how far he’d sunk, then told his dad, and ended Stiles’ life as he knew it. All this...the anger, the agonizing over his future, near and distant. Maybe it would be worth giving up the part of his soul that just wanted to make beautiful art, just to make it quiet. 

He dug his hand into his pocket, closing his fingers around the quarter he’d stuck in there when he’d bought his last meal. He flipped his palm over, unclenching it and letting the coin drop to the marble floor. Derek watched it spin, but Stiles didn’t need to see which side it landed on to know that heads or tails didn’t matter. He’d never win this game. 

“Keep it,” he said, kicking the quarter over to Derek when it finally stopped spinning. “It’s not enough, but it’s everything I have, I swear. 

“Stiles--”

“I swear. I don’t--” His voice gave out with a wet click. “I don’t have--” A rough near-sob escaped him, “--anything anymore.”

Stiles couldn’t stay in that spot any longer. He felt flayed open, like a ruined orange, peeled by rough, careless hands. Basically intact, structurally, but bruised, scratched and raw. His legs moved like broken stilts, carrying him clumsily past Derek and down the escalator to the mall. He gained momentum, breaking into a run to keep from falling on his face. He rounded the corner and spotted the entrance through the haze of his panic, but he didn’t truly expect to reach it. Mall security was just a call away, for Derek, and Stiles waited for a tight grip to come down on his shoulder, pulling him back and getting him in deep shit for a carton of fucking strawberries he hadn’t even gotten to keep. 

But no one stopped him, to his utter shock and relief, and he pushed through the heavy glass doors to the last flight of stairs to the sidewalk and freedom. About halfway down, his legs, already weak from the whiplash of his adrenaline, started trembling more than his balance could handle. They gave out three steps from the bottom and he sank down on the cold concrete, curling in on himself and pressing his palms into his eyes. 

He didn’t cry. He was too busy trying to breathe. What air he could draw sawed in and out of his tight throat and burning chest, whistling and heaving as he tried unsuccessfully to reverse the cycle of anxiety-breathlessness-fear-suffocation-anxiety. _I am having a panic attack_ , he thought, with the part of his brain still focusing on the here and now. _On a dirty staircase, next to a pile of soggy cigarette butts._

Every burden he’d been playing down or pushing out of his head for months seemed to crash down around him. He was fucking homeless. He was never going to get his breakthrough. He was a failure, just like his dad had told him he would be with no words, just raised eyebrows and tight, placating smiles as he spun out wild dreams at their kitchen table. He’d stolen from the people he should have leaned on for support. First Scott and Allison, then the gym where he’d started to feel at home.

He was such a fucking waste of space. His gut churned from hunger and self-loathing, and if he’d had any space in his esophagus for more than a wisp of smoggy air, he probably would have thrown up stomach acid and spit onto the rough, chilly, powerwashed-biannually steps of this rich person mall. And onto the running shoes of the guy who’d stopped next to him. 

He was glad he’d sat down, because the shortage of air and bone-deep weariness were giving him the spins. He didn’t even notice at first that he’d tipped over, guided by gentle but firm hands until he was leaning hard into a wide, strong chest. When he finally registered the soft fabric against his cheek, he tensed and tried to pull back, but Derek shushed him and wrapped his arms tighter around his shoulders. 

“Stiles, relax.” 

He felt his knees get repositioned to a lower step, freeing up some breathing room, but also triggering a wave of nausea. He gave a low moan and lurched closer into Derek’s space, the grain of the polyester-blend hoodie giving him an anchor point of touch; Something that wasn’t the swirling void of his dread. Eventually, he felt the gust of regular breaths hitting the sweater and dampening the air around his cheek, then a reassuring squeeze of his upper arm.

“That’s it. Breathe deeply.” 

With the return of his lung function came the ability to think past the instinct to seek comfort through touch. He seized up with the intention of pulling away, but his body decided enough is enough. He gripped tighter instead, and the sobs he’d been holding back for months clawed their way to the surface, wetting the fabric under his cheek and jolting his frame until he thought he might shake apart. 

Derek held him until the tears dried up. Stiles had no idea how long that was, just that it was enough to soak the hoodie and make his head and eye sockets pound. He unclenched his fists and loosened his arms bit by bit, and Derek waited patiently and unmoving until he could sit up on his own and was breathing more or less evenly. He was pretty sure the rattle of recent crying would linger for a while. 

“Stiles?” Derek said, gently. 

Stiles let his eyes fall closed. It was easier to hide behind the scratchy, swollen lids for a few more minutes than to look up into Derek’s pitying eyes. “Yeah,” he croaked. 

“Can I take you somewhere? Your home? Scott’s?” 

Stiles’ heart sped up at just the thought of showing up at his best friend’s apartment like this. “No. I can’t see Scott.” 

Some of his terror must have come across because Derek immediately backed off. “Okay, that’s fine. But let me come with you to your place. then. I don’t think you should be alone right now.” 

“Can’t.” Numbness stole his ability to lie or hide the truth under tricky words. “Don’t have one.” 

“Don’t have--” Stiles waited for Derek to get it. When he did, a long silence followed, then, “You don’t live anywhere?” 

Stiles shrugged. “Salvation Army this week. St. Augustine’s before that.” 

Derek was quiet for so long that Stiles opened his eyes and turned his heavy head toward him. Derek’s customary mask of general disapproval was in place, but it was cracked in places. His tensely drawn mouth. The deeper V of his eyebrows. Stiles looked away, afraid that in a moment the mask would fall away completely and disapproval would turn to disgust and contempt.

“Come on.” Derek stood up, and Stiles missed his radiating warmth. He’d forgotten how cold the concrete was. 

“What?”

“I’d like you to come with me. I meant what I said about you not being alone today.”

Derek stuck out a hand, but didn’t try to use it to pull Stiles up. Stiles stared at the open palm in front of him until he realized it wasn’t a joke or a lie. Derek wouldn’t do that. With aching limbs, he pushed away from the stairs, using Derek’s hand as a crutch to lift himself up. When Stiles was steady on his feet, Derek started walking, and Stiles followed after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Stiles has a panic attack in this chapter, in the second half.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Derek’s loft so much that some features of it are now located in New York. Not all of it. This place is very much open-concept. Pardon me for using this fic to design my perfect living space. :P

Derek unlocked the door to let them in, then immediately stopped at a small table and emptied his pockets. He kept glancing over at Stiles while he did it, like he was afraid Stiles would run away if he didn’t hurry.

A cat came out of the woodwork and started to vocally appreciated Derek’s return, before seeming to notice Stiles’ presence and taking off somewhere Stiles couldn’t see. Derek said something like sorry about her but Stiles wasn’t really listening.

He was looking around the apartment in a daze, noting the neat and clean surfaces and the spartan decorating. There was such a lack of _stuff_ that if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think Derek had just moved in. But Scott had told him about the new guy at work back in June.

“Are you going to get in trouble for skipping out?” Stiles asked. He hadn’t really been thinking about any sort of consequences on the way here.

“No.” Derek patted his empty pockets awkwardly, then hung up his sweater on the rack by the door. “I’ve never taken a personal day in the four months I’ve worked there. Hell, in the past five years that I’ve worked anywhere. They’ll be fine without me for one afternoon.”

Stiles nodded, relieved, distantly, but also too drained to feel anything deeper than surface level.

“You can sit over there,” Derek told him, gesturing to a big leather sofa that looked like it could swallow a person whole in its cushions if they weren’t careful. Stiles didn’t argue, seeing no reason not to take an opportunity to rest when it was offered. He shrugged off the weight of his backpack and bypassed sitting completely, lying down instead, his head buried in the cushy armrest.

Things were pretty foggy. The apartment was warm and quiet, except for some distant clinking noises in the kitchen that didn’t worry him, or require any attention or opinion. The loudest thing he could hear was his own breath, getting slower and deeper. It was a bit like self-hypnosis, and he went under almost instantly.

It was a miracle he was still awake when Derek came back, dragging the coffee table closer to the edge of the couch with with a grating squawk.

“Eat this,” Derek said, putting a dish near Stiles’ end of the table, then placing a fork and a bottle of water next to it.

The savoury smell caused a rush of saliva in his mouth, but it wasn’t because it smelled good, or because he wanted to eat it. As starved as he’d been before, he was past the point of hunger pangs and into nausea. His gut felt sour and bloated, and the flood of spit he had to swallow past every few seconds certainly wasn’t helping to keep his gag reflex under control.

“I’m not really hungry,” he said, honestly.

Derek sat beside him and nudged the tupperware closer. “Just try a bite. Food makes everything better.”

Stiles thought about the peanut butter sandwiches he’d made for himself and his dad the morning of his mom’s funeral, and the dinner Melissa made for the Stilinskis’ first Christmas without Claudia. Historically, Stiles had found food to make problems seem a little less overwhelming.

He pushed himself up, peeling his face away from the leather of the couch with a wince. His head throbbed a bit from the change in position, but it didn’t make the urge to vomit any worse, so that was a plus. He looked down at the food, and finally recognized the smell of tomato sauce and cheese. It was piece of lasagna, cut into a neat square that fit the plastic container it was nestled in perfectly.

He still didn’t think it looked appetizing. His belly was still protesting at the very idea of eating anything. But he picked up the fork and sawed off a corner, then put it in his mouth before he could think about it long enough to change his mind. Surprisingly, he didn’t immediately toss his cookies. It wasn’t too rich, it just filled his mouth with flavour and went down fine. The next few bites were a lot easier after that.

And it did make him feel better. He ended up eating it so fast he barely tasted it, but what he did taste was great. It looked homemade. The pasta was tender and yellow. The cheese--ricotta, he thought, but he didn’t know anything about lasagna recipes--was soft and flecked with some green herb, not mealy and congealed like a skin infection. (Stiles had had a bad experience with a frozen lasagna in college. It haunted him still.)

Scott had been crazy busy, so Stiles hadn’t been over for a meal in a few weeks, and nothing they served at the shelters could compare to this. When it was gone, and he’d scraped up the last of the sauce with his fork, he put the tupperware down on the table and leaned back against the couch, too satiated to be embarrassed that it’d only taken him about three minutes to eat the whole thing. If he’d thought he was tired before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now, his stomach full to the brim and no longer bubbling uncomfortably.

He was back on his side against the armrest before he knew it, peripherally aware of his shoes being taken off and a blanket being thrown over him before it all went away in favour of sleep.

***

When Stiles woke up, it was dark outside. He was groggy, and his head still hurt a bit, but he felt better than he had in a long time. The apartment was quiet again--quiet still, really--and he took a better look around now that he was thinking clearer.

He hadn’t realized how much of the apartment’s light had been natural, before. He hadn’t noticed much of anything, really. His observation that it was stark and plain was still true, but he also noticed the huge windows and the fact that there were no walls. Like, none. From his place on the couch, he could see the kitchen, the tiny dining table, a sort of office space or library, all out in the open, a big, airy space. The only walled-off area he could see was in the corner. Probably the bathroom.

He could also see the bed. Hard to miss, really, since it was less than 10 feet away, and it made quite a statement. Stiles wasn’t sure how he’d failed to notice it before. Maybe he assumed it was another couch? A giant couch, with huge satin covered pillows and a thick, rich comforter that looked like it wouldn’t be out of place in a five-star hotel.

The door of the walled-off area opened, and his suspicions were confirmed. Derek came out of the bathroom rubbing a towel over his hair, dressed in a loose T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. He paused when he caught sight of Stiles, then padded over to the bed, sitting on the end closest to the couch. Stiles appreciated the space between them. He was weirded out enough by seeing Derek out of his standard gym clothes. He didn’t need to also deal with an awkward couch side-hug.

Derek cleared his throat. “Should I be calling Scott? Or anyone else? You don’t have to--”

“No, please don’t tell him,” Stiles blurted. “He doesn’t know how bad it is. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Derek nodded, though there was a hint of confusion in his face. “Okay.”

Stiles slumped in relief. He was fully awake now, and was already trying to calm himself down after only being conscious for five minutes. “Thanks. I appreciate that. And thanks for letting me nap on your couch, it was--” A couple details he hadn’t realized the significance of snapped into place. The dark outside. The relative quiet. How rested he felt, like he’d slept for hours and hours.

Derek frowned. “Stiles?”

“What time is it?” Derek started to shrug and answer vaguely, but the answer didn’t matter much anyway. Whatever hour it was, he was probably too late to get a spot in the shelter he’d been staying at. He stood up, grabbing his backpack from the floor. “I need to go. Right now.”

Derek stood too, and his cat started twining around his ankles. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“I just--” Stiles hand froze on the handle of the door. It was strange how unused to explaining himself he was. He’d hid his problems from everyone he talked to on a regular basis. To everyone else, he was either just a normal guy or completely invisible. Everyone he spoke to at the shelters knew what he was there for. “I need to find somewhere to stay for the night.”

“You can stay here.”

“Why?” Stiles asked. Well, more like demanded. He’d been taught never to accept handouts, because they always had strings. Especially when they were offered by the person you least expected.

“Why not? You’re already here. I have a couch that I won’t be using. Princess might be a little annoyed that you’re in her favourite napping spot, but she’ll get over it.”

Princess started purring at Derek’s feet, loud enough that Stiles could hear it. Gaining cute points for when she sat on Stiles’ head in the middle of the night, he supposed. That was, if he stayed. He let his head thunk to the metal door. This day just got weirder and weirder.

“Why are you doing this?” He asked, feeling the vibration of the door against his forehead.

Derek tilted his head. “Doing what?”

He turned around, his palm still on the handle. “The food, the couch, being so nice to me. Why? You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” He had the grace to grimace at Stiles’ arch look. “Well, maybe a little bit, sometimes. Other times, you’re alright. But regardless of whether or not I like you, you deserve to have a safe place to sleep.”

“And lasagna,” Stiles said, still wrapping his head around Derek’s kindness.

“Yeah.”

Stiles checked his phone for the time, then guiltily put it away, checking Derek’s face for signs that he was pissed or had changed his mind. He knew it could be hard for people to get why someone could have no money for food when they had a mini computer at their fingertips. Derek didn’t seem phased.

Stiles rubbed a hand over his hair, marvelling at how messed up it felt when it was so short. It was late. He didn’t have anywhere else to go, besides the park bench from last time. He didn’t have much of a choice but to take Derek up on his offer, but it wasn’t as hard a concession to make as he’d expected. Derek was a straightforward person. From what Stiles knew of him, he didn’t think Derek had it in him to have dastardly ulterior motives. They’d require too much subtlety to pull off, and one thing Derek wasn’t was subtle. There were worse things he could do than spend a night on Derek’s couch.

“Okay,” he said, and he took his backpack off. The couch was just as comfy to sit on the second time as it was the first. It wasn’t an illusion brought on by lack of sleep. It really was that soft and smushy. Derek sat down too, on the edge of the sturdy, low coffee table in front of the couch, his hands clasped between his knees, his head lowered. He looked like a Greek marble statue. They sat that way for a few minutes, Stiles worrying the strap of the backpack he’d set on the floor, Derek posed in deep thought.

Stiles wondered if it would be tacky to get up and wander around. Was there some sort of etiquette for couch-surfing? If the protocol demanded that he sit there in contemplative silence with his host until he nodded off from boredom, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t like the park bench better.

“Does anyone else know?” Derek asked, pulling Stiles from his woolgathering.

Weeks ago, Stiles might have pretended not to know what Derek was asking. He’d have been so guarded that even someone who already knew how he was living would never have been permitted to know the details. He would’ve locked up tight and changed the subject with a joke or a barb. Now...he was too worn down to care. He was tired of the lying and pretending. But at the same time, he knew he couldn’t quit quite yet, not when he’d spent so long hiding it. He’d come this far keeping his dad and his friends in the dark. He wasn’t about to stop now, so he figured he’d better spend his craving for honesty where he could.

“No. Nobody,” he said.

“Lonely.” It wasn’t a question.

Stiles shrugged. “Sometimes. Better than the alternative, though.” Derek didn’t press for more, but his expression did. That was enough to get Stiles to elaborate. “Scott, my dad, my friend Lydia. They all would’ve tried to help.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“Honestly? Yes.” He grimaced at how that sounded. “I don’t want to be in their debt. I already owe them all so much, just for helping me get this far. If I relied on them for this, I’d never be able to pay them back.

“I don’t know your dad or your other friend,” Derek said, carefully. “But I know Scott. He would have helped you for free, I’m sure of it.”

“That’s the problem. He’d never ask for something in return, but I’d still feel like I had to give it. He wouldn’t let me, then I’d have to live with it. ” Stiles leaned forward on his knees, tugging his hair in frustration. “I’m not explaining this very well.”

“No, I think I get it,” Derek leaned back, his head cocked to the side, consideringly.

Stiles let out a long breath. “Good.”

Then they were back to quiet, though it wasn’t as tense as it was before. The long nap Stiles had had before didn’t seem to have messed up his sleep schedule too badly, since he felt like he could go again in a minute. It would have been easy to list to the side and pick up the soft blanket from the floor. He didn’t think Derek would mind if he put an end to their little heart to heart.

But he already felt lighter from the short conversation. Someone else knew part of his reasons for doing what he’d done--what he was doing--and hadn’t immediately called him an idiot. It was pretty encouraging. And once he put a toe in to find the water much warmer than he’d expected, it was easy to dive in completely.

“I lost my job,” he said, and Derek’s mouth pursed in sympathy.

The story, for all it seemed so dramatic to Stiles when he was the one living it, was a pretty short one. His job disappearing. Getting evicted. His stubborn refusal to do anything but art for a living. Then, running out of money for real. Most of these problems were still problems, so it made him anxious when he talked about them, but the weight of them felt easier to bear once he said them out loud. They seemed a little more solvable with another person thinking about them. He’d always worked better when he had someone else to bounce ideas off of.

“So, that’s it,” he said, just before he reached the part Derek already knew: The strawberries at the gym that day.

Derek had been customarily quiet through to whole thing. “Okay,” he said now. “Thanks for telling me.”

Stiles didn’t really know what to say to that. _You’re welcome_ didn’t seem quite right. To say _thankyou_ right back would probably work, but he was so rattled and unused to heartfelt sharing that it’d probably come out sounding insincere. He’d save up his one thank you for when Derek kicked him out in the morning. If he was a good enough houseguest, he might even be able to get breakfast out of the deal.

“Stiles.”

Stiles looked up and realized how much closer they’d gotten, physically. Stiles’ tendency to move when he talked had brought him closer to the center of the couch, and Derek had been listening so intently, he was at the very edge of the coffee table. Their knees were touching. How had Stiles not noticed that?

“Are you alright?” Derek asked. His face was so close that Stiles could see the tiny movements of Derek’s eyes as they searched his face for the answer.

Stiles looked away, focusing on the table’s corner. “What do you mean? I’m fine. I’m alive, aren’t I? And as well as I can be, considering.”

“I don’t mean physically. I mean…” Derek slowly, carefully reached out a hand and placed it gently on Stiles’ forearm, gripping slightly, but not tightly. The hand was warm, and solid, but Stiles didn’t feel trapped. “Are you going to be okay?”

For someone who didn’t have a great track record for normal human interaction, Derek sure knew how to see into someone’s soul, Stiles thought. When Stiles had graduated, optimistic (naive) and passionate (reckless) and taken off across the country at the first opportunity, he’d thought, _what’s the worst that could happen?_ As long as he had some income, it didn’t matter if he had to live like a starving artist if his fortune changed. If the New York thing didn’t work out, that didn’t seem like such a bad thing. He could go back to his home state, regroup, get another fabulous dream job.

He hadn’t counted on how embarrassed he’d be when he had to admit to himself that it didn’t just not work out. He’d failed spectacularly. And the fantasy of the lean life of an artist was a lot different from the reality. He’d hoped for the best, and not been prepared for the worst. He’d told himself things would turn out okay in the end, no matter what. He’d been positive he’d be fine, and blue skies were around the corner. But now...

“I don’t know,” he admitted, shaking his head quickly, then letting out a little hysterical laugh. “I don’t know, I don’t--”

The hand on Stiles’ forearm tugged, and he felt himself being pulled into Derek’s chest for the second time that day.

Stiles wasn’t a crier. He’d never found it cleansing like other people said they did. The few times in his life he’d broken down and let himself sob for hours, he’d only felt worse afterward, with a headache and itchy eyes. And, inevitably, the thing that had caused the tears in the first place would still be there when he was finished with the waterworks.

That was what happened earlier, on the steps of the gym. Derek had patiently let him cry it out, and while he’d felt exhausted and empty, he hadn’t really felt much better. So this time, when Derek’s arms came around him, he didn’t cry. He just held on tightly, probably tight enough to hurt.

Derek’s fingers were splayed wide on Stiles’ back, tucked far enough around that they fit almost perfectly in the spaces between his ribs. Those grooves hadn’t been so deep since his mom died and he’d eaten nothing but a single pack of dry ramen noodles a day for a few weeks, because they were the only thing he could keep down. His visible bones had been worrying him for weeks, whenever he looked in the mirror in the harsh white lighting in the gym. He’d tried to ignore the shadows his cheekbones cast, because it didn’t matter, he’d be eating square meals soon. But it was always a thought in the back of his head.

His bony limbs didn’t seem to bother Derek. It was an awkward position--They were both leaning over, and their knees were in their way--but they worked around it to find the most comfortable position. And, oh, it was comfortable. It felt indescribably good. All that warm pressure...It calmed him down faster and more completely than anything he’d ever tried to slow down his brain. Derek’s deep, even breaths helped him regulate his, and the ramping panic making his lungs pump like bellows faded away to a manageable level.

When he was calm enough to let go, he only got a few inches away before he was pulled in again...this time, by the orbit of the buzzing, simmering Something that seemed to hang in the air between them at all times. They went from one type of closeness to another, first mostly platonically, then decidedly not. Neither of them moved very much to make the kiss happen when it did. It was like their cheekbones simply couldn’t brush past each other another time without their lips getting involved. It was slow and soft, unlike their first kiss, but it felt just as incongruous. How did they get there? What were they doing before this moment? Did it matter? No, not really. All that mattered were Derek’s hands slowly creeping from his own knees to Stiles’, to his thighs, then...they were gone. It was over as quickly as it had started.

Derek let out a harsh breath that Stiles could feel gusting over his face. “We can’t,” Derek said, as quiet and intense as the kiss had been.

Stiles knew Derek was right, but he wished he didn’t. The timing wasn’t any better now than it had been weeks ago when they’d both decided not to take this any further. Knowing that didn’t stop him from arguing.

“Why not? You want to do more of that. I definitely want to. I’m not some fragile flower who doesn’t know what they want. You aren’t a knight in shining armour, and god knows, this isn’t love at first sight. What’s the harm?” It’d be nice to have something good for himself. Even if the rest of his life was falling apart, he could have a warm port in a storm. Or at the very least, a tepid one.

“I get that, and you’re right,” Derek said, his hands back on his own thighs, rubbing over his flannel PJs in a way that shouldn’t have been so distracting. The pants looked soft. Stiles wanted to touch them. “But that’s not it. I’m about to ask you something and I don’t want your answer to be swayed by anything that you and I might or might not be.”

Stiles let out a frustrated growl and sat back against the couch. The cool leather against the back of his neck was a reminder of how hot he--and Derek--had gotten in such a short period of time. “Why do you have to be so right all the time?”

The corner of Derek’s mouth hitched up. “I’d say I’ve had a lot of practice, but really, it’s a natural talent.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and scoffed, but he was glad Derek had taken his bait. It was easy to fall back into their rhythm of sarcasm and smart quips. It had always been easy for them, which is what made it so tempting to see if that ease extended from insult swapping to something more meaningful. Maybe, one day when his life wasn’t such a shit show, he’d find out. Derek was obviously more interested in discovering that than Stiles had thought he was, but he was also infuriatingly responsible and noble enough to keep Stiles from making a bad decision.

“Well,” Stiles asked, when his blood wasn’t pumping so quickly. “What’s this question you wanted to ask?”

“It isn’t so much a question as a suggestion,” Derek said, then he visibly steeled himself, taking a calming breath and straightening his shoulders for the big reveal. “I think you should come and live with me. Not just for tonight. Until you get a job, and decide you want to live somewhere else.”

Stiles sat and just blinked for a while, processing. There were lots of things he could ask in return about the specifics of the arrangement, but when he opened his mouth to voice them, what popped out was the question that immediately came to mind.

“Why?” Derek’s brow crinkled a bit, partially in confusion, but more in disappointment. “I’m not saying no,” Stiles rushed to clarify. “It’s just that we barely know each other. I could be a lazy asshole who just doesn’t want to get a job.”

“You could be.” Derek’s laser-intense eyes were no longer teasing, or pleading, or shy. They simply bored into Stiles’ as he spoke with an honest expression. “But I don’t think you are. I just have a hard time believing that you could be lazy, considering your tenacity in continuing to get into a place that really doesn’t want you there.”

Stiles grinned, remembering with fondness all the times he’d slipped past Derek, reminiscing like it’d happened years ago, instead of days and weeks. “Eh, that’s not so tough. You should see me convince the coffee shop up the street from the gym that giving me a free cup of water means I get to use their wi-fi all day. If I ever wanted to switch careers, I think I’d find my calling in snake oil sales.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Derek shook his head and huffed, then sobered. Stiles watched him struggle with his impatience, only to give up on waiting pretty quickly. “You haven’t told me what you think.”

“I think…” What did he think? He’d distracted himself with jokes, but had he actually thought about what his answer would be? Living with Derek. _Derek_ , who Stiles hadn’t been sure wouldn’t punch him in the face at any given moment before today. It would mean he’d lose that extra daily layer of stress over whether or not he’d have a place to lay him down to sleep. He could eat Derek’s leftovers, and skip the line in the church outreach meals. But it would also mean sharing one--very large, but still singular--room with a virtual stranger. A stranger with an overactive moral compass, though...

“I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “What makes taking help from you any different from taking it from my friends? ”

“The difference is that you’ll pay me back in full. My uncle owns the building, so I get this place for cheap. Once you’re on your feet, you can catch up on the rent you’ve missed, take a few extra turns getting groceries. Then we’ll be even. No debt--emotional or monetary--no mess. We both get something out of it.”

Alarm bells went off in Stiles’ head. “What could you possibly get out of this?” He asked, not even trying to hide his suspicious tone. “Other than the rent money you already pay with no trouble.”

Derek lifted his hands, showing his callused palms. “I won’t lie, I have some selfish reasons for wanting you to stay.”

“And they are?” Stiles demanded, scooting a couple inches down the couch, while reminding himself what kind of person Derek was. What sort of ulterior motive did he suspect from the guy who’d put a stop to making out before they got anywhere close to second base, just because he’d wanted Stiles to have a clear head? But being on his own for so long had stamped out Stiles’ instincts for unconditional trust, if he’d ever had any in the first place.

“I’m not good at people,” Derek burst out. He was staring at his hands now, avoiding Stiles’ eyes.

“I noticed,” Stiles said, then he winced. That probably sounded meaner than he’d meant it to. But he really had noticed how normal social interaction didn’t come easy for Derek. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. It was just a fact.

Derek didn’t seem to take it badly. “I come from a big family,” he explained. “We were always in each other’s spaces. I get--” Lonely, Derek couldn’t quite say, but Stiles understood. “I don’t like being on my own here. I figure you’re just as good as any roommate I could find on Craigslist.”

Stiles relaxed, his uncomfortable urge to get up off the couch and get as far away from Derek as possible faded, and they were back to their normal, awkward too-closeness. He nodded. “That makes sense. I’m as likely to murder you in your sleep as KittenLover235 would be.”

“Exactly.” Derek reached out and touched Stiles’ knee with just the barest tips of his fingers, as if a firm grip would shatter any hope of them making this deal. “Do you understand now why we can’t start…” Derek flicked his other hand between them. “This. Whatever this is. I don’t want to be your sugar daddy.”

Stiles choked on a surprised laugh. Of all the words he’d expected to come out of Derek’s mouth, those ones wouldn’t have come to mind. “Yeah, I get it. Roommates, not fuckbuddies or boyfriends.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but he was smiling a little. “Yeah. For now, at least.”

An anxious knot Stiles hadn’t even known he had loosened in his chest. He nodded like a bobblehead for a few seconds. “Okay. For now. I can totally do that.”

Derek’s eyebrows went up, and he blinked. “Are you...agreeing, then? To stay here?”

Stiles blinked back, his brain finally catching up with his mouth. Was he agreeing? He hadn’t consciously made a decision, but he realized he was already making plans in his head that depended on accepting Derek’s offer. He was a planner by nature. Planning was what he did. But he typically at least waited until he’d actually chosen the left or right fork in the crossroad to start rolling out his mental spreadsheets. That acknowledged, who was he to argue with his gut reaction?

“Yeah,” he said, dazedly. “I guess I am agreeing.”

“You...you’re sure?” Derek said, crossing his arms over his chest and furrowing his brow.

“Yes? Shouldn’t I be?”

“I just....” Hadn’t expected him to agree so easily, apparently. “I have some quirks you’ll have to get used to.”

“You a neat freak?” That wouldn’t be a problem. Stiles was used to picking up the slack on household chores. They helped him think, so he didn’t mind doing dishes or sweeping, especially if he didn’t have to cook. He _could_ cook, but he didn’t enjoy it.

“Not really. I always forget to empty the dishwasher and sometimes I don’t do laundry for weeks. It’s not cleaning things I’m weird with, it’s just...there’s things I have to do. Or my whole day sucks.”

“Fair enough. I can work with that. I have a few quirks of my own, since we’re mentioning it. If you’re the type of person who doesn’t put the toilet paper in the dispenser the right way, it’s never going to work between us.”

Derek scowled, but Stiles could tell it was his playful one, rather than the real _you’re in trouble_ face. “There’s only one right way, and that’s [over](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toilet_paper_orientation). If you prefer under, I don’t want it to work. I’d rather get a serial killer from the internet to come and keep me company.”

“No worries,” Stiles said, with a relieved grin. “Our toilet paper preferences are right in line. That’s one obstacle down.”

“I’m serious, though, Stiles. This isn’t a decision you should make quickly. I can be...hard to get along with. Which you should know.”

Derek was looking down at some invisible point around Stiles’ backpack while he said this, nudging the dangling strap slightly with his foot. It seemed insane to Stiles that he was actually seeing bare foot. No expensive, ergonomic running shoes, no moisture wicking socks. Just long, slightly fuzzy toes and tan lines on his ankles that were like night and day. One of the many inconsequential things he’d learn about Derek if he stayed. Tomorrow, he might find out if Derek ate cereal in the mornings, or if he liked eggs, or if he was like Stiles and didn’t believe in the criminally limiting concept of “breakfast foods.”

Stiles couldn’t wait. That was how he knew he’d made the right decision. Sure, lots of things could go wrong. They could find out that they did actually hate each other, or they could be completely incompatible as roommates and want to kill each other immediately. Derek could turn out to be a huge asshole who wasn’t as okay with Stiles not having rent just yet as he’d originally said. But it could also turn out great. They could fill a need for each other that had nothing to do with romance or sex and everything to do with how lonely they both were. And later, if it did become about romance...then that might be okay too.

“I get it,” Stiles said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice, to show Derek how serious he was. “I’m no peach to live with either. Just ask Scott. He’ll give you some horror stories to make you feel better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it.”

Princess the cat jumped up on the couch, only to immediately jump off again when she saw Stiles in her space on the couch. Derek scooped her into his arms and stood up.  
“I’ll let you take tonight to think it over,” he said, scritching Princess under the chin. “If you change your mind between now and tomorrow, there’ll be no hard feelings, no disappointment.”

Stiles shook his head. “I won’t change my mind.”

“Okay. But you can if you want. I’m going to sleep.” He put his cat down and jerked his head toward the bed on the other side of the coffee table. “Right there. I have no idea if I snore. Sorry.”

Stiles shrugged and stretched, feeling the tiredness settle back into his bones. “That’s okay. I’m pretty sure I talk in my sleep, so this is me giving you permission to film the best stuff so we can go viral on YouTube.”

“Deal, as long as I get 50 percent of the ad revenue.”

“You drive a hard bargain. But you’re on.”

Derek smiled--with teeth--and Stiles was struck again by how different Derek looked when he did that. Stiles intended to make him do more of it. He could play dirty, if necessary. He had a feeling it might be necessary. 

“Good night, Stiles.” 

“Good night. Oh, wait. One more thing.” 

“Yeah?”

Stiles thought his cheeks would crack, he grinned so wide. “Can I use your shower?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter and the epilogue to go! Ack! 
> 
> And don’t worry. The Sterek tag is an accurate description of this story, in the end. I wanted to put in this roadblock first, though, because as much as I love the idea of Derek riding in like a white knight to save Stiles, and as much as it’s nice to have Stiles being taken care of as part of the relationship, it’s also important to acknowledge that relationship dynamics play an important part in consent. 
> 
> Consent might be freely given at one time, but if one partner starts feeling like they have to give it for any reason, or starts fearing consequences for retracting it, (whether or not those concerns are warranted) then it isn’t truly consent. And we can always hope that this would never happen between our boys, but they can’t know what the future would hold at this point in the story. I needed Stiles to be able to walk away at any time, with only a bit of rent money holding him back, that Derek would never ask for in a million years, even if their arrangement fell apart. This way, he’ll be able to do that, even though everyone knows he never would. 
> 
> But there’s still some of this story left, so we’ll get to the point where that safeguard isn’t necessary, I promise.


	12. Chapter 12

If someone had asked Stiles when he was in high school if he could picture himself becoming an early bird, he would have laughed in their face. Then he would’ve gone back to bed, because when he was a teenager, if he wasn’t in class, he was either sleeping or stuffing his face to fill the gaping chasm of his growth-spurt-fueled appetite. 

Nevertheless, he’d gotten used to having to clear out of the shelters by seven in the morning, so he wasn’t surprised when his eyes popped open at first light after spending the night on Derek’s couch. Something else he’d gotten used to was the disorientation that came from not waking up to the same ceiling or set of sheets every day, so it only took about five seconds for his brain to come back online enough to remember where he was and stop freaking out. 

And for the first time in months, he looked at his phone, saw that it wasn’t much past the ass crack of dawn, and rolled back over, intending to go straight back to dreamland. That was the plan, anyway. The reality was that even the lack of the ambient sounds of people packing up and grabbing cold breakfasts from the volunteers couldn’t make his body get with the sleeping-in program. 

After 10 fruitless minutes of trying to recapture his strange but surprisingly pleasant dream about lamps coming to life, he flipped over to his back and blinked his eyes against the fuzzy white morning light streaming in through the windows. After he was finished cursing it for burning way too many layers off his retinas, he had to admit it was nice. He was so completely and refreshingly awake, he felt like the type of person who could go for a run, then eat granola and drink green tea from a clear glass mug. (According to all the commercials on TV, green tea is only ever sipped from clear glass, so that everyone can see the green-ness of the tea.)

What did Derek do in the mornings in his cool New Yorker converted warehouse apartment, he wondered. Was he a green tea type of person? Or coffee? Or a smoothie with all veggies, no fruit? Or maybe he was a bad, bad example of a personal trainer and skipped breakfast entirely. That didn’t seem likely, but it was a more appetizing image than picturing Derek eating raw eggs every morning. Derek was on his way to barge-sized, so it wasn’t that much of a stretch to imagine.

Stiles liked breakfast. Not the food that went along with it so much as the time of day. He used to stumble downstairs all through school and blearily choke down a bagel or some leftovers from dinner, and his dad would be there to laugh at his zombie shuffle and ruffle his hair before they went their separate ways. Sometimes his dad would be as tired as he was, just coming off an overnight shift. Some days, he’d be fresh as a daisy, just heading off to serve and protect. Regardless, he’d rub his hand over Stiles’ head, and everything would seem better somehow. Except for Stiles’ hair, when he’d finally let Lydia teach him how to style it. It would always look tragic by the time he got to school, from his dad’s fingers and his own.

Stiles tipped his head back, peering upside-down over the arm of the couch. The kitchen looked well-equipped from where he was. He couldn’t see inside the cupboards or the fridge, but judging from the variety of the hanging pots and pans and the overflowing spice rack, Derek probably used his kitchen fairly frequently. There was probably enough food in the kitchen that he could make something for them both. Something that was simple, tasty, yet a little bit impressive. It would be nice if he could show off his culinary skills, let Derek know that he could be useful.

Determined, he sat up and put his feet on the floor. Big mistake. The sleek hardwood was freezing cold. _Jeez_ , he thought. It was only September. What must this place be like in the winter months? _Better than a shelter or the park_ was the only answer he cared about. Stretching his arm as far as he could, he dug a pair of socks out of his backpack without falling off the couch or having to move from his warm spot. 

When he shoved them on his feet, he took a couple more minutes to enjoy being able to just laze around. He checked Facebook on his phone, texted his dad that he might be moving to a nicer place, basking in the normality of it all. When he was finally ready to face the world (and the cold floor) he stumbled up from the couch and reached his arms over his head, popping some of the joints in his back. 

The kitchen was clean, but not disinfected within in an inch of its life as Stiles might have expected. There was enough cupboard space for every tool and ingredient to have its own place. Some of the shelves were even labelled meticulously. Stiles could work with that. Eventually. At the moment, he felt his go-getter attitude slipping away. 

He hated this feeling, the one every guest feels when they stay over at someone else's sanctuary, no matter how many times their host tells them that they should make themselves at home. Derek hadn’t actually told Stiles to make himself at home, not in so many words. But Stiles thought that might have been implied in the whole “Come live with me, I’m lonely and you’re broke” arrangement. 

In the end, even though he found eggs and ham and green pepper, and he could’ve made a killer omelette, he decided not to try and push his luck. Another morning, maybe, or even later that day. When he felt less like an imposition and more like a roommate. Derek was still sleeping, after all, and he might not appreciate being woken up by the smell of frying egg.

Sleeping in the same--however huge--room as Derek hadn’t been as strange as he’d thought it would be. Of course, he’d gotten used to bunking with other men, but that was in a vastly different context. He’d thought Derek would be weird about it, hyperaware of his presence. But Derek had just read a book for a while, then rolled over, narrowly missing his puddle of a cat and gone to sleep. No fuss, no weirdness. It boded well for the future. 

Padding back over to the couch, Stiles plopped down with his legs crossed in the middle of it and took a granola bar out of his bag. He chewed it mournfully, knowing that if he didn’t finish it then he’d be cranky, but hating every second of the experience. After he had enough money to buy the food he wanted again, if he never saw another granola bar, it would be too soon. Which was a shame, since he used to like them. It was like tricking himself into thinking he was making a healthy choice, when really he was eating candy. 

He shoved the empty wrapper into his backpack, promising himself he’d get up later and throw it out. (He’d probably end up carrying it around with him for a couple of weeks before he remembered to put it in the trash.) As he stuffed it farther down in the depths of it, his hand brushed against the smooth cover of his sketchbook. He pulled it out, along with a pen, since he had nothing better to do than refresh Twitter until Derek woke up. He opened it up to a new blank page, and cast his eyes around the apartment for something to draw to pass the time. 

There wasn’t much in the way of still life subjects. Derek favoured furniture with clean lines and not a lot of inherent personality. He also didn’t like a lot of clutter, apparently, since almost every surface was free of knick-knacks or general stuff that collected. A laptop was out and charging on the coffee table and a few picture frames hung on the brick wall above the tiny TV, and that was it. Stiles could tell even from far away that the pictures were of Derek’s family. One of them looked like a posed portrait, but all the others were candid, with funny faces or wide, happy smiles. One of them...Stiles recognized the sketch he’d drawn for Derek as a thank you. It was framed neatly like all the others, and held a place of honour in the centre of the ordered cluster. 

Stiles still remembered all the little things Derek had shared with him about the people in those pictures. There was no reason for him to keep those facts around, but like the history of the vibrator and his great aunt’s gross beef tripe recipe, they stuck in his head, and he couldn’t get rid of them even if he’d tried. He didn’t mind. He didn’t have a big family, or even a wide circle of friends, so it was neat to know some semi-intimate trivia about people he’d never met. See how the other half lives. 

He wondered if he’d ever meet them. It seemed likely, if this thing with Derek worked out. Derek’s family seemed like the type who would make room at the table on Thanksgiving for any roommate, co-worker or casual acquaintance who didn’t have their own family to visit. November was just around the corner, so there was a good chance Stiles could tag along and get some turkey that hadn’t been cooked in bulk by the soup kitchen. He couldn’t wait. Then, there was the possibility that he’d visit as more than someone sharing an apartment with Derek. That was something he was anticipating even more excitedly. 

Derek even slept attractively, Stiles noticed, even as he acknowledged that it was a little creepy that he was staring at the guy. But Derek had known that Stiles would be able to see him if he just looked over to the bed. Derek wouldn’t be surprised that that was what he got for having an open plan loft where the couch and the bed were less than 10 feet away from each other. And seriously, who could pass up that kind of life study? Not Stiles. Derek was so orderly in wakefulness, but in sleep, he tossed and turned, mussing the blankets irreparably. He’d twisted into a weird and wonderful shape that looked like it couldn’t be comfortable unless he had an astonishing level of flexibility, but he slept on regardless, without a snore or a single sign of rising to the surface of consciousness. 

So Stiles grabbed a pen and took the opportunity as it presented itself. He’d tell Derek when he woke up that he’d been a great model. Make sure it wasn’t totally against the rules of Roommateship. Well, he probably would. If he could get the nerve to reveal how painstakingly he’d sketched the curve of Derek’s rib cage where his sleep shirt had ridden up and the inches of soft, sleep-flushed bare skin before his boxers covered it up. He was still honouring their No Touching agreement from the night before. He was just...testing the boundaries a bit, that was all.

He was almost finished the last part of the sketch--Derek’s ankle, with its sprinkling of hair peeking out of the grey sock, and the foot that wasn’t still covered in the sheet--when there was a knock at the door. 

Stiles flinched. He was big enough to admit it. The apartment had such a desolate, industrial vibe that he never would have expected many visitors. He wasn’t even sure if there was anyone else in the building. Last night, Stiles had been distracted by his own emotional turmoil, but he hadn’t seen any doors that could lead to other apartments. Only the stairwell that led straight to Derek’s door. Not very convenient for neighbours to stop by for a cup of sugar. 

The knock came again and Derek woke up, his whole body twitching into awareness way quicker than Stiles’ would have. He didn’t look ready for rocket science, but he was clearly awake enough to be as confused about the knocker as Stiles was. 

“Derek?” Came a disembodied voice from beyond the door. “Your mother said you weren’t working today. Please don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing because you decided to get a social life.”

“Error four-oh-four, no social life found,” Stiles muttered, automatically. Derek tossed a pillow at him, then stumbled out of the bed. 

“Uncle Peter?” Derek opened the door and a man wearing a business suit and a pointy, glinting grin stepped in. 

“Nephew,” Peter said, jovially. He pulled Derek in for a tight hug, despite Derek’s dazed expression. It was the hug that made Stiles relax a bit. It wasn’t one of those backslapping shows of dominance. It was strong, and inescapable, but honestly fond. Derek had told Stiles that Peter rarely said what he meant, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care about anyone. He loved his family. He just had different ways of showing it than Derek’s parents did, and that was fine. 

Peter had some business to take care of in the city, he told them, and had arranged his schedule so that he could pop in on Derek to make sure he was still taking care of himself. Derek rolled his eyes, and waved Peter in. (This conversation, Stiles figured out, was a perfect example of Peter’s unique show of familial affection. It sounded like Peter was insulting Derek’s ability to not die out here on his own, but really he was just letting him know that they thought about him back home. It was kind of sweet, in a way) 

“I’m so glad your mother was right about you being here to let me in,” Peter said, placing his leather briefcase safely on the kitchen table. “It probably would’ve been awkward to meet the boyfriend we’ve never met or heard of without you around to introduce us.”

Peter’s voice--also his raised eyebrow, just as expressive as Derek’s--was only a little reproving. He obviously wasn’t pissed, just surprised that Derek would keep something a secret. 

Stiles waited for Derek to explain how things really were. The explanation didn’t come. Derek’s mouth was slack and his eyebrows furrowed his bewilderment. As Stiles watched, Derek let out a jaw-cracking, eye-watering yawn. Not a morning person, then, Stiles assumed. 

Stiles stood up and took over, feeling grossly underdressed in his T-shirt and loose boxers. He was more covered than most of the people who worked out at Derek’s job, and wasn’t showing much more skin than Derek himself, but Peter’s ice blue eyes had a way of making him feel naked. 

“Uh, it’s not like that, Mr. Hale. I’m just…” How best to describe their relationship, Stiles asked himself. A former nemesis? A vagabond who wouldn’t leave well enough alone? A potential romantic interest, if/when he managed to get his shit together? “A friend.” 

“A friend,” Peter repeated, pleasant but incredulous. “Really?”

“Yep.” He gave quick, awkward wave. “Stiles. Nice to meet you.” 

Derek grunted and flapped a hand between the two of them, but in slow motion. “Mmm. Friend. Stiles. Uncle Peter. Do the...meet thing.” 

It was clear that Derek knew what he wanted to say, and maybe, in his head, he was making perfect sense. But it also looked like it was physically painful for Derek to be trying to form actual words. 

“Alright, Derek, we will,” Peter said, soothingly. “Go shower and join the land of the living.”

“‘Nghkay.” Derek shuffled off in the direction of the bathroom. Stiles didn’t think he had his eyes open for any part of the journey. The door shut jarringly behind him, and Stiles and Peter were left alone. 

Peter didn’t let the quiet stay uncomfortable for long. “Well,” he said. “I need more coffee if I’m going to continue to function at this hour. How about you, Stiles?” 

“Yeah, sure. Coffee would be great.” 

It occurred to Stiles that it was a bit odd to be accepting the offer of a drink from a person who didn’t, in fact, live there, but he was glad for the distraction. He quickly put on some pants when Peter’s back was turned, then sat back down on the couch. It wasn’t like he knew where anything was in the kitchen, so he wouldn’t be any help. 

Peter brought over two full mugs--ceramic, not clear glass, because they were not in a Lipton commercial--and put them on the table, sitting on the opposite end of the couch from Stiles, then dumping a portion of flavoured creamer into his own with a disgusted, but resigned expression. They took their first few scalding hot sips in silence so crisp that they could hear the water running through the thick walls of the bathroom. 

“So,” Stiles said, when he couldn’t stand it any longer. “You live in the city?”

Peter placed his coffee back on the table and sat back, tapping his finger on his knee absently. “Upstate, actually. I stayed in a hotel last night so I’d have time to visit before I have to go back.” 

“Long drive?” 

“Yes. Five hours. Or four, if you don’t drive like an old woman like my nephew.” The finger stopped tapping. Peter studied Stiles with an inscrutable expression. “Derek hasn’t told you where his family lives?” 

Stiles cursed internally. He should have kept his mouth shut if he wanted to keep the details of his and Derek’s arrangement quiet. “No. We’re not really at that stage yet.” 

“But you are at the sleepover stage.” Peter’s eyes flicked to Stiles’ rumpled shirt, and the thick blanket he’d obviously used the night before on the couch. “In separate beds.” 

“Yes.” Not that it was any of Peter’s business. His defensiveness must have shown on his face, since Peter frowned.

“Sorry. We’re a nosy bunch in this family. It’s a bit of a shock not to already know everything about Derek’s new _friend_.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Not much to tell, really.” 

“I’m curious anyway.” Peter crossed his foot over his other knee and slung his arm over the back of the couch, a deliberately open and non-threatening posture he must have read about in How to Take Over the World Monthly magazine. “Where did you meet? When did you become friends? I’d love to know everything.”

Stiles could make it easy for himself, he knew. He could tell Peter they met at Derek’s work, let him assume that Stiles either worked or worked out there. Or make something up completely, and hope that Derek was chill enough to follow his lead if it came up again. But last night’s honesty hour had done a number on him, and he found that he really didn’t want to lie. He wasn’t about to spill his life story, but he figured there was no harm in telling some of the truth. 

He looked down at his coffee cup as he talked. “Like I said, there isn’t that much to tell. We don’t even know each other that well. I started making his life difficult a couple months back. Now he’s helping me out of a bad spot.”

“Ah. I see.”

Stiles looked up, latching onto Peter’s placid face. Stiles had a suspicion that Peter really did see. Even with such scant information, he’d pieced together the story into at least a semi-accurate picture. Stiles quickly snapped his gaze back down, watching the bubbles on the edges of his black coffee like they were intensely fascinating. He was worried about what he’d see if he looked into Peter’s face for much longer. Derek had been understanding about his predicament. There was no guarantee that Peter--even though he was a blood relation--would be as sympathetic. 

He breathed through the heavy quiet, telling himself over and over that if Peter really wanted conversation, he could start one. He never did, which was a good indication that the silence was at least a little bit amicable. Stiles tried to pay attention to the sound of the shower, so he could tell when it shut off, but the more he listened, the less he was sure that the sound he was hearing even was the shower. It was just white noise, really, and every time he re-focused on it, he changed his mind over whether he’d be able to tell when he had just a few more minutes more of gentle, well-mannered torture. 

“That’s quite good.” 

Stiles gave a full-body twitch. His half-full mug spilled a few drops over its side. He quickly scooped it up and stuck his fingers in his mouth. It made him feel like a child, but he had yet to find out how Derek felt about stains on his hardwood flooring, so he played it safe. 

“The coffee?” He asked Peter. The coffee was Folgers. Percolated quickly in an ancient looking machine and--in Peter’s case--flavoured with non-dairy creamer and the curl of a distasteful lip. _Quite good_ was not the description Stiles would use. 

“No.” Peter’s eyes flicked up, and Stiles could tell he was having a very difficult time not rolling them in exasperation. “That.” 

Peter nodded toward Stiles’ sketchbook, which was open to the drawing Stiles had nearly completed. Of Derek, blissfully unaware that he was being captured on the page in a distinctly appreciative manner. 

“Oh. Thanks.” Stiles picked up the sketchbook and brought it to his lap. He wanted to slam it shut and hide it away, but Peter had already seen it, so there wasn’t much point, and there was no way that he could do it subtly. It would be completely obvious that he was trying to get it out of Peter’s sight, but it wasn’t because he was embarrassed by it. It was a good study. Clean and crisp lines, an accurate depiction of the muscles of Derek’s back under the thin, tight T-shirt. He wanted to hide it because he didn’t want Peter to get the wrong idea, and it would be easy for Peter to do, considering the level of detail that Stiles had put into drawing Derek’s ass. 

“You’ve trained?” Peter asked, mildly, as if he was unaware of Stiles’ internal freaking out. A likely story. 

“Yeah. College, back home in Cali.” 

“You doing something with it?” Stiles must have looked as confused as he felt. “Something tells me you’re not one of Derek’s meathead co-workers,” Peter explained. 

Peter wasn’t trying to be offensive. Stiles still bristled a bit, on Scott’s behalf more than his own. But he reminded himself what Derek had said about Peter pissing people off mostly by accident. He was almost as bad as Derek at social intricacies, just better at hiding it. 

He took a breath and shrugged instead of jumping down Peter’s throat. “Not at the moment. I’ll probably have to get a real job.”

“Who says art isn’t a real job?”

Stiles snorted and gripped the edges of his battered sketchbook firmly. “The past few months I’ve spent trying to get a job with my degree say it loud and clear.” 

Peter managed to put a boatload of unimpressed into a single hum, then he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on the couch. “Let’s see some more, then.” 

Stiles handed over the book on autopilot, too thrown off to think of a good reason not to. Peter started from about the middle, looking through it thoroughly with no expression on his face other than polite interest. He paused on some of the pages, though, and almost looked like he might make a comment once or twice, but he didn’t. He flipped through the pages slowly until he reached the most recent one--Derek’s sleeping form, taking up a full page instead of a quadrant or half. He closed the solid black cover and handed it back to Stiles, who didn’t resist the urge to stash it away this time. His threshold for impromptu show and tell was reached for the day. 

Peter picked up his coffee from the table, sniffed it, grimaced and set it back down. He wiped his hands on his slacks, then made an all-encompassing gesture toward Stiles’ backpack, with the sketchpad zipped up safely within it. “You have electronic copies of those?”

“Some. The best ones.” 

“Good.” Peter pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket. “Email them to me, with a watermark, if you have one. I’ll put you in touch with someone I know in publishing. She needs fresh blood to design cover art for the trashy fantasy romance novels her clients spit out like clockwork.”

“I…” Stiles’ fingers closed around the card, and he stared at the shiny gold embossed writing. 

“I can’t promise anything, but she could use someone with your talent on her team.” 

“Uh…”

“Stiles, that’s great.”

Stiles hadn’t noticed the sound of the water turning off, or the door opening and Derek emerging wrapped in a towel. If he’d had the ability to speak before he saw Derek damp and mostly unclothed, he definitely would have lost it after. 

“Thanks, Uncle Peter,” Derek said casually, while strolling over to his bed and grabbing some clothes from the drawers underneath it. 

“Now, don’t get too excited. Like I said, I’m not going to stick my neck out, but--”

“Whoa, hold the phone.” 

Both Hales looked at Stiles. Their expressions of surprise and very slight annoyance at his raised voice were eerily similar. It was funny, because they didn’t actually look that much alike. They both had cheekbones for days, but the similarities ended there, then began again when they furrowed their--very differently groomed--eyebrows and pursed their lips. 

“Thank you, Peter. Really,” Stiles said, getting his voice back. “I appreciate the offer. But Derek’s been so good to me already, I don’t think--” 

Derek shook his head. “Stiles, there’s nothing wrong with taking a leg-up once in a while--” 

Peter scoffed. “Oh, please, don’t turn this into something it isn’t. I don’t do charity unless I’m getting a tax receipt for my donation. This,” Peter pointed to the business card still clutched in Stiles’ hand, “is called networking. Everyone knows the best jobs are never advertised. All those applications you’ve been doing have barely scratched the surface. It’s all about who you know, really. Take advantage of it. Everyone else does.” 

Stiles scraped a fingernail along the edge of the card, flattening the corner. Already, it looked far less crisp and impressive, just from having been held in a sweaty hand for a couple of minutes. It was fitting that it was printed in gold lettering. It could potentially be his golden ticket to the life he’d envisioned for himself when he’d turned away from the high marks he’d gotten in all his science classes and tried to get into a good school with his mediocre art marks and overstuffed portfolio. (Instructions were never Stiles’ friends. The Beacon Hills High School art teacher had despaired over him, but also let him use her classroom over lunch breaks to practice with oils.)

“I’ll think about it,” Stiles said. 

Derek smiled encouragingly. Peter flicked a cat hair off his pants. 

The three of them socialized for about an hour, getting the low-down on Derek’s family back home from Peter, who dominated the conversation considerably. Stiles didn’t pay much attention, though, since he was too busy thinking about the business card in his pocket. 

After looking at his expensive watch and pronouncing himself nearly late for his meeting, Peter left, with another crushing hug for Derek and a painfully strong handshake for Stiles.  
The door clanged shut behind him, and Stiles was left blinking in the whirlwind. Were all of Derek’s family like that, Stiles wondered. If they were, it was no wonder that Derek wasn’t a big talker. Who needed to learn how to steer a conversation if your family just did it for you every time?

Princess jumped up on the couch. Stiles reached out and scratched her ears, tentatively. She seemed like a friendly enough cat, but she’d hid for the duration of Peter’s visit, so it could be all a lie. She accepted it gracefully, but didn’t look overly enthused. Derek sat down beside her on the couch and she immediately abandoned Stiles for her owner. That was fair, he figured. He’d like to have Derek’s strong fingers on the nape of his neck, too. 

“Do you think you’ll do it?” Derek asked. 

Stiles didn’t need to clarify what he was talking about. He nodded. “I think so. What do you think?” 

“I think Peter’s right. Take the opportunity that’s given to you. It’s not like you aren’t talented. If you get the job, it’ll be by your own merit, not Peter’s. He’ll just get you a foot in the door.”

After so many weeks of job hunting, it seemed like a slap in his own face to have Peter give him everything he’d been looking for after knowing him for all of five minutes. Could it really be that easy? Should he even get his hopes up? Peter had seemed like the kind of person who made things happen, despite his protest that he’d only be a messenger. But was the offer at all genuine? Was it just a way to get on his nephew’s _friend’s_ good side, with no intention of follow-through? There was no way of knowing, other than waiting it out. 

He’d go to the library today and send off his best work to the email address on Peter’s card. If it never came to anything, it wouldn’t be because he’d never tried. If it did turn into the dream it promised? Then maybe he wouldn’t be just Derek’s friend for much longer.

“Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“What does your uncle do for a living?”

Derek looked thoughtful, stroking Princess’ back like a bond villain. “He tells us that he helps people make more money. Beyond that, we don’t actually know. I don’t know if he does, even.”

“Huh.” 

“Yeah. We just decided not to question it.”

“Good thinking.”

“He likes you. I can tell.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Really?” It wasn’t that Peter had been cold or distant with him. He just hadn’t been particularly welcoming.

Derek nodded decisively. “Definitely. If he hadn’t, he’d have just ignored you. You’ll know he wants you to stick around when he starts insulting you. He just doesn’t like to let anyone know they’re not completely awful.” 

“Like someone else I know,” Stiles said, smirking. Derek smiled back. _Not yet,_ Stiles thought. _But maybe soon._


	13. Epilogue

The gym was bustling today. It wasn’t as busy as a couple of weeks ago, when the New Year’s Resolution-ers were still in full force. Now, they’d been whittled down to the ones Derek thought might actually stick it out. The regulars would be pleased to have their equipment back, and the staff would be pleased that the regulars were pleased, and not complaining to them every other minute about people not following the unwritten rules of the gym. 

For once, he was happy to sit at the desk for a while. The mild boredom was a nice change from being rushed off his feet. There was a steady stream of members coming in, and he scanned their keychains, trying to practice the smile Stiles had assured him only looked a little bit like a serial killer.

Derek looked down at his watch. Stiles had gotten off work 15 minutes ago, and had told him that morning over breakfast that he might stop by so that they could walk home together. Stiles was always doing things like that. Hanging out with Derek just because, so Derek didn’t start feeling like he was holding Stiles back. 

Things with Stiles had been going better than Derek ever could have hoped. Stiles told Scott that he didn’t feel safe in his imaginary hovel, so he’d broken his imaginary lease and moved into Derek’s very real apartment. Scott was surprised to say the least, but supportive. Derek had smoothed over the whole strawberry thing as a misunderstanding, so Scott still had no idea what Stiles had been through. Stiles thought he might tell Scott one day, when it was all in distant memory. For now, though, Stiles’ reasons for keeping mum about how he spent his summer were still valid. 

They turned the couch into a bed every night and got used to sleeping just a few yards away from each other. It was a little weird at first. Like summer camp, or Derek’s one disastrous semester in the dorm rooms at college. The difference was that, unlike Derek’s college roommate, Stiles wasn’t a complete slob, and was surprisingly understanding about Derek’s routines. 

A little too understanding, really, but it worked out in Derek’s favour. He didn’t mind that Derek couldn’t leave the house unless his bed was neatly made, even if they were late for something, or that he really preferred Stiles to cook things in even numbers. That was all fine, and a huge relief. But then Stiles started asking him oddly specific questions about his routines, or the unshakable images that turned his own brain into a horror movie for no good reason. 

After the questions, Stiles left a packet of information on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder on the fridge. That had been their first fight. _I’m not OCD,_ Derek had yelled. He wasn’t one of those people who washed their hands 10 times because they touched a germy doorknob. Stiles had shouted back that not all people with compulsions were germophobic, and that hand-washing was just one of many common rituals. It was pretty impressive, actually, how Stiles managed to sound like a walking encyclopedia, even while yelling over Princess’ yowls. 

Derek had stormed out of the place, angry and hurt, and worried that the thing they’d been building would all crumble. Then, he’d turned right back around, because he hadn’t made his goddamn bed yet, and he just couldn’t do it. That was when he decided to actually read the papers Stiles had printed out for him. 

Nothing much had changed for Derek since he’d found out. He’d always known his routines were silly and unnecessary, but that hadn’t stopped him from having to do them. He’d lived with it and been fine so far in his life, so he didn’t want to start taking medication that might or might not help anyway. He just wanted to live like he had been, but happier in the knowledge that he wasn’t the only person who felt like he did. 

Stiles had been nothing but supportive of him for the last few months. He never made Derek feel like a bug under a glass, or a poor dear who was so strong for soldiering through life despite having a diagnosis. Stiles acted just the same. Annoying, sometimes. But mostly just engaging, and always interesting. 

They made better friends than they did enemies. Once they weren’t at each other’s throats, they were just at each other’s sides. They still fought, but over stupid stuff like the lid for the peanut butter not being screwed on tight enough. Stiles was still friends with Scott, and Derek was getting along great with Boyd, but they still spent more time with each other than anyone else. 

Stiles got along with Derek’s family, and didn’t make fun of his dependence on them. They got used to him being in earshot for their skype calls, making smart remarks and adding embellishments to Derek’s stories. By the time Derek brought Stiles home for Christmas, they were already thick as thieves. 

“Derek!”

He looked up and Stiles was at the top of the stairs, his messenger bag overstuffed and his cheeks stretched in an exuberant smile. Derek smiled back, acknowledging, but ultimately ignoring the familiar tugging in his chest at the sight of him. They were great right now. They were happy, and comfortable with the way things were. But that didn’t mean that they couldn’t be even better. And Derek had a feeling things were about to change pretty soon. 

“Hey there,” Stiles said, coming to a halt with his legs pressed against the solid metal barrier Deaton had finally splurged for. He still wanted an employee manning the welcome desk at all times, but this way, no one could get past it without the express permission of someone who worked there. 

“Hi.” Derek got up from his stool and rounded the desk, stopping just inches from his side of the gate. 

“Guess what?” 

Derek lifted an eyebrow. That was all Stiles was getting from him as a guess. Stiles pulled out his phone and brandished it in front of Derek’s face, too quickly for Derek to see anything. He caught Stiles’ wrist and held it still, peripherally aware of Stiles’ quickly beating pulse. On the screen was the home page of Stiles’ mobile banking app. With his free hand, Stiles pointed proudly at the balance of his chequing account. 

“I just got paid. Direct deposit, baby.” 

“And? It’s Friday. You always get paid on Fridays.” For a while, after Stiles had gotten the job at Peter’s friend’s publishing company, he’d spent every Friday evening grinning ear to ear and celebrating. Within reason, of course. If there was one thing Stiles knew, it was how to stretch a dollar. Derek had to admit the blanket fort was a fun way to spend a Friday night. 

“Yeah, but look. Look at that balance, Derek.” 

Derek looked. Then did some math in his head. “Is that…?”

Stiles’ eyes sparkled. “Enough for rent? Yep. The past few months, a couple of extra for cushion, and some grocery money left over.” He took his phone back and started tapping away. “I’m sending you what I owe as we speak. And...done.” 

Derek’s phone buzzed in his pocket with the email, but he didn’t bother to check it. 

“You know what that means?” Stiles asked. 

“What?” 

Stiles leaned his hands on the gate, the corner of his lips tipped up and his eyes locked on Derek’s. “You no longer have an excuse not to date me.”

Derek closed the short distance between himself and the gate, placing his hands next to Stiles,’ shifting near enough that he could feel his body heat. “What about the fact that you’re a constant trial to me. Isn’t that reason enough?” 

Stiles’ smirk turned into a full-blown grin. “Nope.” 

Months ago, Derek would never have considered kissing someone in the entrance of his place of work. He was a straight-and-narrow sort of person, and always would be. But some people, he thought as his lips met Stiles’, were worth a little rule-bending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote! Thanks to everyone who's been reading along, and to everyone who commented with encouragement! 
> 
> I'm entering a very busy time at work, so I probably won't be able to write very much for the next few months :( But if you want to be notified when I do start posting again, please subscribe! And don't forget to give kudos if you enjoyed this!


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